Crossroads # 09 Lynn Abbey's Rifkind, Daughter Of The Bright Moon Warhorn

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LYNN ABBEY'S

— RIFKIND, DAUGHTER OF
THE BRIGHT MOON

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US/56415-4 * $3:50 ae

CAN/56416-2 * $4.50

DREAD DANGER IN
DRO DARIA

Rifkind’s student Scatha suddenly has a hideous
vision: the wizard Drukor has stolen the Lost Horn of
the War Horse of Heaven and will, within a month, use
it to unleash the Demons of the Unnamed Realm.
Unless Scatha can recapture the Warhorn.

Scatha possesses the witch-power tal, weapons train-
ing from the warrior-women of Chatelgard, and gifts
from the gods . . . but she is young, untested, innocent
to many of the perils and dark magics of Dro Daria. Will
her skills and powers be enough for Scatha to sur-
vive monsters, bandits, slavers, half-humans and gods,
as the warrior-woman strives to reach the distant
Asheeran Waste .. . and a fatal confrontation with a
consummate master of absolute evil?

CROSSROADS® ADVENTURES are authorized inter-
active novels compatible for use with any role-playing
game. Constructed by the masters of modern gaming,
CROSSROADS® feature complete rules; full use of
gaming values—strength, intelligence, wisdom/luck,
constitution, dexterity, charisma and hit points; and
multiple pathways for each option; for the most com-
plete experience in gaming books, as fully realized,

motivated heroes quest through the most famous

worlds of fantasy!

All-new with an introduction by
Lyan Abbey

ENTER THE ADVENTURE

TOR’S CROSSROADS™ ADVENTURE SERIES

Dragonharper, based on Anne McCaffrey’s Pern

Storm of Dust, based on David Drake’s The
Dragon Lord

Revolt on Majipoor, based on Robert Silverberg’s
Majipoor

The Witchfires of Leth, based on C.J. Cherryh’s
Morgaine

Prospero’s Isle, based on L. Sprague de Camp and
Fletcher Pratt’s The Incomplete Enchanter

Dzurlord, based on Steven Brust’s Jhereg

A Warlock’s Blade, based on Christopher
Stasheff’s Gramarye

Encyclopedia of Xanth, based on Piers Anthony’s
Xanth

Warhorn, based on Lynn Abbey’s Rifkind

ATOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or
incidents is purely coincidental.

WARHORN

Copyright © 1987 by Bill Fawcett and Associates

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form.

Crossroads and the Crossroads Logo are a trademark of Bill
Fawcett used with permission.

Crossroads Game/novels are published by TOR Books by arrange-
ment with Bill Fawcett.

First printing: December 1987

The names, places, and descriptions and other plot elements used
in this game are derived from works copyrighted by and trade-
marked by Lynn Abbey. These are used under license and may not
be used or reused without Lynn Abbey’s permission.

A TOR Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

49 West 24th Street

New York, NY 10010

Cover art by Doug Beekman
Illustrations by Todd Cameron Hamilton

ISBN: 0-8 12-56415-4
Can. No.: 0-812-56416-2

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

To Bill F., for giving me the break,
and having faith in me;
to Lynn, for trusting me
to muck around in her wonderful world;
to Bill R., for sticking it out,
and for mostly staying off my computer,
even when his was down.

RIFKIND:
AN INTRODUCTION
by Lynn Abbey

WELCOME TO Dro Daria—the world I built for
Rifkind, the heroine of Daughter of the Bright
Moon and The Black Flame. 1 imagined Rifkind
first and knew her long before I got around to
putting her world together. She was a rebel from
vast, treeless steppes who had learned swordman-
ship and claimed the unswerving loyalty of a war-
horse stallion in defiance of her clan’s sacred
traditions. She had been taught healing by Muroa,
a hermit priestess, and initiated into the mysteries
of the Bright Moon. Her relationship with her
family was as bad as any teenager’s could be and
— ~yet_she would have sacrificed herself in a hopeless
pursuit of vengeance after they had been massacred
by a rival clan. But Muroa sent the young Rifkind
far beyond the steppes’ horizons to the cultivated
lands. There, unable to understand the subtlety of
civilization, she became a pawn in an ambitious
man’s political schemes. She outwitted him and

|

2 . WARHORN

everyone else to become a sorceress of earth-
shaking power. Along the way she discovered
friendship and felt the first faint stirrings of love.

In short, Rifkind was much more interesting
than any mere landscape ever would be, but I
needed a place for her and I didn’t want that place
to be Earth. So I came up with Dro Daria—an
absolutely unforgivable mangling of the Cornish
words for Land of the Dawn. It was little more than
a circle of a continent floating in an ocean whose
size I frankly still do not know.

A circular pattern, however, dominates Dro
Daria. A desert called the Death-Wastes sits at the
center of the continent. The Asheera—those vast,
semiarid upland plains where Rifkind was born
and raised—completely surround the Death-
Wastes. Beyond the Asheera, at the outer edge of
the circle, is what Rifkind and the rest of the
Asheerans rather disdainfully call the Wet-Lands
(it snows in the Asheera during the winter but it
rarely, if ever, rains). The Wet-Landers, however,
think their fertile lands along the coast are the only
portion of the continent worth calling Dro Daria,
and they call themselves the Dro Darians and have
less complimentary names for Rifkind’s people.

Two outbursts of mountains disrupt the circular
symmetry of Dro Daria. In Glascardy, on the
eastern coast, a massive range of mountains comes
almost to the ocean’s edge. Vast forests replace the
farmlands. The lowland Dro Darians consider the
mountain-dwelling Glascards to be as wild as
the Asheerans (and almost as disreputable). The

WARHORN 3

Glascardy mountain range is a substantial heaping
up of dark gray granite, but the other Dro Darian
mountains, the Lowenrat peaks, are an isolated
cluster of volcanoes along the southwestern arc of
the continental island.

I console myself these days with the knowledge
that Rifkind wouldn’t understand her world any
better if it were a well-constructed planet rather
than a jury-rigged one, but I pity any intrepid
Darian scientist who ever tries to start the Scientif-
ic Revolution in his homeland. There is no logic to
the geology, ecology, or weather on Dro Daria,
everything simply is and mere mortals must adapt
or perish. Luckily I had the foresight to make Dro
Daria a world where magic was rampant and the
gods had a long history of meddling with
everything—especially the weather and the shape
of the landscape.

There are lots of gods hovering over Dro Daria;
some of which are worshipped and seem to provide
a slight measure of aid or benefit to their worship-
pers. The Asheerans acknowledge only one deity
whom they call simply the Goddess of the Bright
Moon or the Bright One (in contrast to the Dark

-..- Moon, Vitivar, whom no one worships). Muroa

and Rifkind bear the mark of the goddess’s favor in
the form of a silver crescent on their cheeks, but
there is no formal religion on the steppes. The
Bright One’s priestesses are healers, and although
Rifkind has called on her goddess for aid, she is
well aware that Dro Darian mortals are always at a
disadvantage when dealing with their gods.

4 WARHORN

The Wet-Landers have a more organized religion
revolving around Mohandru, the Weeping God.
They have rituals, festivals, as well as a large and
wealthy priest class. The official myths claim that
Mohandru is the father of all life and that he weeps
because his mortal younger children are treated so
badly by the elder gods. The power of the
Mohandrist priests seems to increase whenever
times get bad in Dro Daria; so as your adventure
begins, the worship of the Weeping God is wide-
spread, especially in the Wet-Land areas.

Mohandru is less popular in the Glascardy
mountains—not because the Glascards disagree
with the official myths but because they see no
evidence that all those tears are having any benefi-
cial effect. Their noble lords, the Overnmonts, have
lived for eight generations in the huge fortress
called Chatelgard—but the Overnmonts did not
build Chatelgard. They merely found it and, after
recognizing that it protected the key passes into the
dense forests of the Glascardy interior, they occu-
pied it. The Overnmonts and those under their
immediate protection dwell safely amid the wind-
swept granite. Others are not so fortunate and their
misfortune can be laid squarely in the hands of the
gods.

Humanity is not the first race to make its home
on Dro Daria although the earlier ones have left
only their stone ruins, like Chatelgard, and their
gods behind. Above the treeline, where the air is
thinner, the Lost Gods. dwell in a disgruntled
eternity. Ordinary men who by accident or design

WARHORN 5

linger too long in the unprotected mountains, espe-
cially in winter, are driven mad—transformed into
the savage, cannibal hunters the Glascards call
Mountain Men. Those who in some unpredictable
way please the Lost Gods are drawn into the
mysteries of the mountain cults and may even be
granted an audience with one of these ancient
deities.

Rifkind, once her exile’s journeying had brought
her to Chatelgard, was drawn to the high peaks and
established an uneasy friendship of sorts with the
black-scaled shape-shifting god who called himself
Hanju. There is no doubt that Hanju retains his
power or that he is one of the elder gods who drives
Mohandru to tears; there is also no doubt that eons
of isolation have left him more than a bit mad. His
affection for Rifkind led him to reevaluate his low
opinion of humankind; he is easier to find these
days and generally helpful to those he likes. Still, he
is a god and from the hints he has let drop in his
half-mad conversation the Dro Darian gods, like
the ancient Greek gods, settle their rivalries on
mortal battlefields.

The vast fenland called the Felmargue was the

~ site of one of these battles; the Death-Wastes was

another. In each case the opening skirmish came
when mortal magicians were seduced into assum-
ing the powers or talismans of the gods. It would
seem-that the warhorn, itself, might be such a
talisman. If it fell into the wrong hands and its
sounding became the excuse for the Dro Darian
gods to involve themselves in another Armaged-

6 WARHORN

don, it might mean the end of humanity on Dro
Daria.

Rifkind, herself, has never been comfortable
with the notion that her actions could have such
far-reaching consequences. She has, to her own way
of thinking, enough trouble keeping her own life in
order without taking on responsibility for the well-
being of all Dro Daria. Her greatest ambition has
always been to be left alone to live her life as she
sees fit; perhaps this lack of world-conquering am-
bition is why the gods have so frequently sought her
out. Friends and teachers throughout the Daughter
of the Bright Moon and The Black Flame have
attempted to make her aware of the impact she has
on those around her. Their efforts fall on deaf ears.

Not that Rifkind is an ignorant barbarian—
although the cultured aristocrats of the Wet-Lands
have made that mistake more than once. Simply
moving their herds from one well to the next has
taught the average Asheeran as much about naviga-
tion as Christopher Columbus ever knew, and
Rifkind, who is, after all, an initiate to the myster-
ies of a moon cult, knows a good deal more than the
average Asheeran. She need only close her eyes and
listen for the voice of her patron goddess to know
the locations of both of Dro Daria’s moons and all
the stars visible in its heaven. Rifkind never gets
__ lost and the stories Scatha hears about her aunt are

as much about Rifkind’s long journeys as they are
about her other powers. —

And Rifkind does have other powers which are
about evenly divided between the magical, which

WARHORN 7

are as dangerous as they are useful, and the practi-
cal, which she would willingly teach to Scatha. As a
rather small woman—I figure she’s about four feet
eleven inches and weighs about one hundred
pounds—Rifkind is at a considerable disadvantage
in Dro Daria where, just like here on Earth,
strength tends to be a function of size. She has
learned, often the hard way, that a woman who
would be a warrior is wise to practice with both a
sword and a knife—but wiser still to acknowledge
her physical weakness and use her wits to avoid a
fight whenever possible.

INTRODUCTION
AND RULES
TO CROSSROADS™
ADVENTURES
by Bill Fawcett

FOR THE MANY of us who have enjoyed the stories
upon which this adventure is based, it may seem a
bit strange to find an introduction this long at the
start of a book. What you are holding is both a
game and an adventure. Have you ever read a book
and then told yourself you would have been able to
think more clearly or seen a way out of the hero’s
dilemma? In a Crossroads™ adventure you have
the opportunity to do just that. You make the key
decisions. By means of a few easily followed steps
you are able to see the results of your choices.

A Crossroads™ adventure is as much fun to read
as it is to play. It is more than just a game or a book.
It is a chance to enjoy once more a familiar and
treasured story. The excitement of adventuring in a

8

WARHORN 9

beloved universe is neatly blended into a story
which stands well on its own merit, a story in which
you will encounter many familiar characters and
places and discover more than a few new ones as
well. Each adventure is a thrilling tale, with the
extra suspense and satisfaction of knowing that you
will succeed or fail by your own endeavors.

THE ADVENTURE

Throughout the story you will have the oppor-
tunity to make decisions. Each of these decisions
will affect whether the hero succeeds in the quest,
or even survives. In some cases you will actually be
fighting battles; other times you will use your
knowledge and instincts to choose the best path to
follow. In many cases there will be clues in the
story or illustrations.

A Crossroads™ adventure is divided into sec-
tions. The length of a section may be a few lines or
many pages. The section numbers are shown at the
top of a page to make it easier for you to follow.

_ Each section ends when you must make a decision,

or fight. The next section you turn to will show the
results of your decision. At least one six-sided die
and a pencil are needed to “play” this book.

The words “six-sided dice” are often abbreviated
as “D6.” If more than one is needed, a number will
precede the term. “Roll three six-sided dice”’ will
be written as “Roll 3 D6.” Virtually all the die rolls

10 WaRHORN

in these rules do involve rolling three six-sided dice
(or rolling one six-sided die three times) and total-
ing what is rolled.

- If you are an experienced role-play gamer, you
may also wish to convert the values given in this
novel to those you can use with any fantasy role-
playing game you are now playing with. All of the
adventures have been constructed so that they also
can be easily adapted in this manner. The values
for the hero may transfer directly. While fantasy
games are much more complicated, doing this will
allow you to be the Game Master for other players.
Important values for the hero’s opponents will be
given to aid you in this conversion and to give those
playing by the Crossroads™ rules a better idea of
what they are facing.

THE HERO

Seven values are used to describe the hero in
gaming terms. These are strength, intelligence,
wisdom/luck, constitution, dexterity, charisma,
and hit points. These values measure all of a
character’s abilities. At the end of these rules is a
record sheet. On it are given all of the values for the
hero of this adventure and any equipment or sup-
plies they begin the adventure with. While you
adventure, this record can be used to keep track of
damage received and any new equipment or magi-
cal items acquired. You may find it advisable to

WARHORN 11

make a photocopy of that page. Permission to do
so, for your own use only, is given by the publisher
of this game/novel. You may wish to consult this
record sheet as we discuss what each of the values
represents.

STRENGTH

This is the measure of how physically powerful
your hero is. It compares the hero to others in how
much the character can lift, how hard he can
punch, and just how brawny he is. The strongest a
normal human can be is to have a strength value of
18. The weakest a child would have is a 3. Here isa
table giving comparable strengths:

Strength Example

3 A 5-year-old child

6 An elderly man

8 Out of shape and over 40

10 An average 20-year-old man

13 In good shape and works out
ecad-5 A top athlete or football running

back
17 Changes auto tires without a jack
18 Arm wrestles Arnold Schwarzenegger
and wins

A Tolkien-style troll, being magical, might have a
strength of 19 or 20. A full-grown elephant has a

12 WARHORN

strength of 23. A fifty-foot dragon would have a
strength of 30.

INTELLIGENCE

Being intelligent is not just a measure of native
brain power. It is also an indication of the ability to
use that intelligence. The value for intelligence also
measures how aware the character is, and so how
likely they are to notice a subtle clue. Intelligence
can be used to measure how resistant a mind is to
hypnosis or mental attack. A really sharp baboon
would have an intelligence of 3. Most humans (we
all know exceptions) begin at about 5. The highest
value possible is an 18. Here is a table of relative
intelligence:

Intelligence Example

3 My dog
5 Lassie
6 Curly (the third Stooge)
8 Somewhat slow
10 Average person
13 College professor/good
quarterback
15 Indiana Jones/Carl Sagan
Be Doc Savage/Mr. Spock
18 Leonardo da Vinci (Isaac

Asimov?)

WaARHORN) 13

Brainiac of comic-book fame would have a value of
21.

WISDOM/LUCK

Wisdom is the ability to make correct judgments,
often with less than complete facts. Wisdom is
knowing what to do and when to do it. Attacking,
when running will earn you a spear in the back, is
the best part of wisdom. Being in the right place at
the right time can be called luck or wisdom. Not
being discovered when hiding can be luck, if it is
because you knew enough to not hide in the poison
oak, wisdom is also a factor. Activities which are
based more on instinct, the intuitive leap, than
analysis are decided by wisdom.

In many ways both wisdom and luck are further
connected, especially as wisdom also measures how
friendly the ruling powers of the universe (not the
author, the fates) are to the hero. A hero may be
favored by fate or luck because he is reverent or for
no discernible reason at all. This will give him a
high wisdom value. Everyone knows those “lucky”
individuals who can fall in the mud and find a gold
_ coin. Here is a table measuring relative wisdom/

TUCK

Wisdom Example

Under 3 Cursed or totally unthinking
5 Never plans, just reacts
7 Some cunning, “street smarts”
9 Average thinking person

14. WARHORN

11 Skillful planner, good gambler

13 Successful businessman/Lee Iacocca

15 Captain Kirk (wisdom)/Conan (luck)

17 Sherlock Holmes (wisdom)/Luke
Skywalker (luck)

18 Lazarus Long

CONSTITUTION

The more you can endure, the higher your consti-
tution. If you have a high constitution you are
better able to survive physical damage, emotional
stress, and poisons. The higher your value for
constitution, the longer you are able to continue
functioning in a difficult situation. A character with
a high constitution can run farther (though not
necessarily faster) or hang by one hand longer than
the average person. A high constitution means you
also have more stamina, and recover more quickly
from injuries. A comparison of values for constitu-
tion:

Constitution Example

3 A terminal invalid
6 A 10-year-old child
8 Your stereotyped “98-pound
weakling”
10 Average person
{4 Olympic athlete/Sam Spade
16 Marathon runner/Rocky

18 Rasputin/Batman

WARHORN 1/5

A whale would have a constitution of 20. Super-
man’s must be about 50.

DEXTERITY

The value for dexterity measures not only how
fast a character can move, but how well-
coordinated those movements are. A surgeon, a
pianist, and a juggler all need a high value for
dexterity. If you have a high value for dexterity you
can react quickly (though not necessarily correct-
ly), duck well, and perform sleight-of-hand magic
(if you are bright enough to learn how). Conversely,
a low dexterity means you react slowly and drop
things frequently. All other things being equal, the
character with the highest dexterity will have the
advantage of the first attack in a combat. Here are
some comparative examples of dexterity:

Dexterity Example
3 or less Complete klutz

5 Inspector Clousseau
6 Can walk and chew gum, most of
——— the time

—— Barney Fife
10 Average person

13 Good fencer/Walter Payton

15 Brain surgeon/Houdini

16 Flying Karamazov Brothers

17 Movie ninja/Cyrano de Bergerac

18 Bruce Lee

16 WaRHORN

Batman, Robin, Daredevil, and The Shadow all
have a dexterity of 19. At a dexterity of 20 you
don’t even see the man move before he has taken
your wallet and underwear and has left the room
(the Waco Kid).

CHARISMA

Charisma is more than just good looks, though
they certainly don’t hurt. It is a measure of how
persuasive a hero is and how willing others are to
do what he wants. You can have average looks yet
be very persuasive, and have a high charisma. If
your value for charisma is high, you are better able
to talk yourself out of trouble or obtain informa-
tion from a stranger: If your charisma is low, you
may be ignored or even mocked, even when you are
right. A high charisma value is vital to entertainers
of any sort, and leaders. A different type of charis-
ma is just as important to spies. In the final
measure a high value for charisma means people
will react to you in the way you desire. Here are
some comparative values for charisma:

Charisma Example

3 Hunchback of Notre Dame
5 An ugly used-car salesman
Ss Richard Nixon today

10 Average person

12 Team coach

14 Magnum, P.I.

WARHORN-” 17

16 Henry Kissinger/Jim DiGriz
18 Dr. Who/Prof. Harold Hill
(Centauri)

HIT POINTS

Hit points represent the total amount of damage
a hero can take before he is killed or knocked out.
You can receive damage from being wounded in a
battle, through starvation, or even through a men-
tal attack. Hit points measure more than just how
many times the hero can be battered over the head
before he is knocked out. They also represent the
ability to keep striving toward a goal. A poorly paid
mercenary may have only a few hit points, even
though he is a hulking brute of a man, because the
first time he receives even a slight wound he will
withdraw from the fight. A blacksmith’s apprentice
who won’t accept defeat will have a higher number
of hit points.

A character’s hit points can be lost through a
wound to a specific part of the body or through
general damage to the body itself. This general

damage can be caused by a poison, a bad fall, or

“even exhaustion and starvation. Pushing your body
too far beyond its limits may result in a successful

action at the price of the loss of a few hit points. All

these losses are treated in the same manner.

Hit points lost are subtracted from the total on
the hero’s record sheet. When a hero has lost all of
his hit points, then that character has failed. When

18 WARHORN

this happens you will be told to which section to
turn. Here you will often find a description of the
failure and its consequences for the hero.

The hit points for the opponents the hero meets
in combat are given in the adventure. You should
keep track of these hit points on a piece of scrap
paper. When a monster or opponent has lost all of
their hit points, they have lost the fight. If a
character is fighting more than one opponent, then
you should keep track of each of their hit points.
Each will continue to fight until it has 0 hit points.
When everyone on one side of the battle has no hit
points left, the combat is over.

Even the best played character can lose all of his
hit points when you roll too many bad dice during a
combat. If the hero loses all of his hit points, the ©
adventure may have ended in failure. You will be
told so in the next section you are instructed to turn
to. In this case you can turn back to the first section
and begin again. This time you will have the
advantage of having learned some of the hazards
the hero will face.

TAKING CHANCES

There will be occasions where you will have to
decide whether the hero should attempt to perform
some action which involves risk. This might be to
climb a steep cliff, jump a pit, or juggle three
daggers. There will be other cases where it might
benefit the hero to notice something subtle or

WaARHORN' 19

remember an ancient ballad perfectly. In all of
these cases you will be asked to roll three six-sided
dice (3 D6) and compare the total of all three dice
to the hero’s value for the appropriate ability.

For example, if the hero is attempting to juggle
three balls, then for him to do so successfully you
would have to roll a total equal to or less than the
hero’s value for dexterity. If your total was less than
this dexterity value, then you would be directed to
a section describing how the balls looked as they
were skillfully juggled. If you rolled a higher value
than that for dexterity, then you would be told to
read a section which describes the embarrassment
of dropping the balls, and being laughed at by the
audience.

Where the decision is a judgment call, such as
whether to take the left or right staircase, it is left
entirely to you. Somewhere in the adventure or in
the original novels there. will be some piece of
information which would indicate that the left
staircase leads to a trap and the right to your goal.
No die roll will be needed for a judgment decision.

In all cases you will be guided at the end of each
section as to exactly what you need do. If you have
any questions you should refer back to these rules.

MAGICAL ITEMS AND SPECIAL
EQUIPMENT

There are many unusual items which appear in
the pages of this adventure. When it is possible for

20 WaARHORN

them to be taken by the hero, you will be given the
option of doing so. One or more of these items may
be necessary to the successful completion of the
adventure. You will be given the option of taking
these at the end of a section. If you choose to pick
up an item and succeed in getting it, you should list
that item on the hero’s record sheet. There is no
guarantee that deciding to take an item means you
will actually obtain it. If someone owns it already
they are quite likely to resent your efforts to take it.
In some cases things may not even be all they
appear to be or the item may be trapped or cursed.
Having it may prove a detriment rather than a
benefit.

All magical items give the hero a bonus (or
penalty) on certain die rolls. You will be told when
this applies, and often given the option of whether
or not to use the item. You will be instructed at the
end of the section on how many points to add to or
subtract from your die roll. If you choose to use an
item which can function only once, such as a magic
potion or hand grenade, then you will also be
instructed to remove the item from your record
sheet. Certain items, such as a magic sword, can be
used many times. In this case you will be told when
you obtain the item when you can apply the bonus.
The bonus for a magic sword could be added every
time a character is in hand-to-hand combat.

Other special items may allow a character to fly,
walk through fire, summon magical warriors, or
many other things. How and when they affect play
will again be told to you in the paragraphs at the

WARHORN) 21

end of the sections where you have the choice of
using them.

Those things which restore lost hit points are a
special case. You may choose to use these at any
time during the adventure. If you have a magical
healing potion which returns 1 D6 of lost hit
points, you may add these points when you think it
is best to. This can even be during a combat in the
place of a round of attack. No matter how many
healing items you use, a character can never have
more hit points than he begins the adventure with.

There is a limit to the number of special items
any character may carry. In any Crossroads™ ad-
venture the limit is four items. If you already have
four special items listed on your record sheet, then
one of these must be discarded in order to take the
new item. Any time you erase an item off the record
sheet, whether because it was used or because you
wish to add a new item, whatever is erased is
permanently lost. It can never be “found” again,
even if you return to the same location later in the
adventure.

Except for items which restore hit points, the
hero can only use an item in combat or when given
the option to do so. The opportunity will be listed
in the instructions.

In the case of an item which can be used in every
combat, the bonus can be added or subtracted as
the description of the item indicates. A +2 sword
would add two points to any total rolled in combat.
This bonus would be used each and every time the
hero attacks. Only one attack bonus can be used at

22 WARHORN

a time. Just because a hero has both a +1 anda +2
sword doesn’t mean he knows how to fight with
both at once. Only the better bonus would apply.

If a total of 12 is needed to hit an attacking
monster and the hero has a +2 sword, then you will
only need to roll a total of 10 on the three dice to
successfully strike the creature.

You could also find an item, perhaps enchanted
armor, which could be worn in all combat and
would have the effect of subtracting its bonus from
the total of any opponent’s attack on its wearer. ’
(Bad guys can wear magic armor, too.) If a monster
normally would need a 13 to hit a character who
has obtained a set of +2 armor, then the monster
would now need a total of 15 to score a hit. An
enchanted shield would operate in the same way,
but could never be used when the character was
using a weapon which needed both hands, such as a
pike, longbow, or two-handed sword.

COMBAT

There will be many situations where the hero will
be forced, or you may choose, to meet an opponent
in combat. The opponents can vary from a wild
beast, to a human thief, or an unearthly monster. In
all cases the same steps are followed.

The hero will attack first in most combats unless
you are told otherwise. This may happen when
there is an ambush, other special situations, or

WARHORN 23

because the opponent simply has a much higher
dexterity.

At the beginning of a combat section you will be
given the name or type of opponent involved. For
each combat five values are given. The first of these
is the total on three six-sided dice needed for the
attacker to hit the hero. Next to this value is the
value the hero needs to hit these opponents. After
these two values is listed the hit points of the
opponent. If there is more than one opponent, each
one will have the same number. (See the Hit Points
section included earlier if you are unclear as to
what these do.) Under the value needed to be hit by
the opponent is the hit points of damage that it will
do to the hero when it attacks successfully. Finally,
under the total needed for the hero to successfully
hit an opponent is the damage he will do with the
different weapons he might have. Unlike a check
for completing a daring action (where you wish to
roll under a value), in a combat you have to roll the
value given or higher on three six-sided dice to
successfully hit an opponent.

_ For example:

Here is how a combat between the hero armed
with a sword and three brigands armed only with
daggers is written:

BRIGANDS
To hit the hero: 14 To be hit: 12 Hit points: 4

24 WaRHORN

Damage with Damage with

daggers: 1 D6 sword: 2 D6

(used by the brigands) (used by the hero)

There are three brigands. If two are killed (taken to 0
hit points) the third will flee in panic.

If the hero wins, turn to section 85.
If he is defeated, turn to section 67.

RUNNING AWAY

Running rather than fighting, while often desir-
able, is not always possible. The option to run away
is available only when listed in the choices. Even
when this option is given, there is no guarantee the
hero can get away safely.

THE COMBAT SEQUENCE

Any combat is divided into alternating rounds.
In most cases the hero will attack first. Next,
surviving Opponents will have the chance to fight
back. When both have attacked, one round will
have been completed. A combat can have any
number of rounds and continues until the hero or
his opponents are defeated. Each round is the
equivalent of six seconds. During this time ail the
parties in the combat may actually take more than
one swing at each other.

The steps in resolving a combat in which the
hero attacks first are as follows:

WARHORN 25

1. Roll three six-sided dice. Total the numbers
showing on all three and add any bonuses from
weapons or special circumstances. If this total
is the same or greater than the second value
given, “to hit the opponent,” then the hero has
successfully attacked.

2. Ifthe hero attacks successfully, the next step is
to determine how many hit points of damage
he did to the opponent. The die roll for this will
be given below the “to hit opponent”’ informa-
tion.

3. Subtract any hit points of damage done from
the opponent’s total.

4. Ifany of the enemy have one or more hit points
left, then the remaining opponent or opponents
now can attack. Roll three six-sided dice for
each attacker. Add up each of these sets of
three dice. If the total is the same as or greater
than the value listed after “‘to hit the hero” in
the section describing the combat, the attack
was successful.

5. For each hit, roll the number of dice listed for
damage. Subtract the total from the number of
hit points the hero has at that time. Enter the
new, lower total on the hero’s record sheet.

If both the hero and one or more opponents have
hit points left, the combat continues. Start again at

26 WARHORN

step one. The battle ends only when the hero is
killed, all the opponents are killed, or all of one
side has run away. A hero cannot, except through a
healing potion or spells or when specifically told to
during the adventure, regain lost hit points. A
number of small wounds from several opponents
will kill a character as thoroughly as one titanic,
unsuccessful combat with a hill giant.

DAMAGE

The combat continues, following the sequence
given below, until either the hero or his opponents
have no hit points. In the case of multiple oppo-
nents, subtract hit points from one opponent
until the total reaches 0 or less. Extra hit points
of damage done on the round when each oppon-
ent is defeated are lost. They do not carry over to
the next enemy in the group. To win the combat,
you must eliminate all of an opponent’s hit
points.

The damage done by a weapon will vary depend-
ing on who is using it. A club in the hands of a child
will do far less damage than the same club wielded
by a hill giant. The maximum damage is given as a
number of six-sided dice. In some cases the maxi-
mum will be less than a whole die. This is abbrevi-
ated by a minus sign followed by a number. For
example, D6—2, meaning one roll of a six-sided
die, minus two. The total damage can never be less
than zero, meaning no damage done. 2 D6-1

WARHORN) 27

means that you should roll two six-sided dice and
then subtract one from the total of them both.

A combat may, because of the opponent in-
volved, have one or more special circumstances. It
may be that the enemy will surrender or flee when
its hit point total falls below a certain level, or even
that reinforcements will arrive to help the bad guys
after so many rounds. You will be told of these
special situations in the lines directly under the
combat values.

Now you may turn to section 1.

RECORD SHEET

Scatha, Warrior-Woman of the Quais

Strength: 13
Intelligence: 12
Wisdom/Luck: 14
Constitution: 15
Dexterity: 12
Charisma: 12

Hit Points: 20

Items of original equipment: broadsword, shield,
knife, leather splint armor, flint and steel, twelve
copper pennies, cloak.

Section 1

a ee

The huge crow swoops, watching the farmers mov-
ing like dark insects through the golden sea of
grain. Giving them only a cursory thought, she
flaps her shining midnight wings, gaining a new
draft of air spiraling invisibly upward from the
sun-warmed land, swooping and wheeling to the
_ hill where the ruins lay.

She settles onto a chunk of stone which had once
been part of a wall, lifts her head and caws shrilly.
Far below, in a pool of black liquid fire, her cry is
echoed by a ripple in the magical stuff. Here is a
place older than the gods, save for the ancient
Landmother. Here is a place where only a few short
years ago, the heavens were rent in a struggle to
suppress nameless powers hungry for a world to
own.

Here lie the remains of Domhnall, the last to
inhabit this place, his body protected by a dolmen
of stone. If living eyes could see him there, he might

~ _seem ancient and shrunken, but a moment later his

~ body may glow like some ethereal being, a blond
youth of startling beauty observed in slumber.
The bird finishes her preening, rises to the sky
once more, and sails to the fields seeking a meal of
ripe grain.
Nearby, a tall blond woman stands supervising a
group of youths who are harvesting the rich crop.

Section 1

Spying the bird, she stoops and picks up a stone,
and hurls it at her target with power and accuracy.
But the crow flutters off unharmed, cawing trium-
phantly.

“Go away, Lady Crow. We have nothing for
you,” the woman calls after her, throwing a second
stone for good measure.

“Isn't she the totem of the War Goddess?” a boy
asks.

“Yes, indeed, but her mistress is quite used to
hunger.”” The blond woman, Linette, knows first-
hand what living through a war can mean. She has
been both a poor peasant and has lived as a queen,
and she went hungry both times.

Linette sighs as the crow disappears, but the bird
has stirred her memories of the past. Brushing back
a stray wisp of hair which has escaped her long
braids, she shakes away the thoughts.

“Back to work now,” she gently chides the chil-
dren and herself, but adds, “Tonight I'll take you all
out to see the Crow Goddess and her brother, the
Great War-Horse. This is the best time of year to
see those constellations.”

After a hearty meal of stew and bread, the
youngsters clamber around Linette.

“Take us to see the stars, Aunt Linny.”

“Please, you promised.”

Linette helps clear away the last of the wooden
bowls, wipes her hands on her apron, and leads
the small herd of children outside. A number of
the grown-ups forsake a second mug of ale and join
their children.

Section 1

The velvet of the night sky is unspoiled by the
light of either the Bright Moon or her darker
companion, Vitivar. The stars pulse with an expec-
tant excitement, as though they were greeting these
fragile, transient humans.

“There is the Crow.” Linette points to the three
stars which outline the right wing, and the two
which mark the left. “See the bright red star which
is her eye.”

The youngest children stand in rapt wonder, the
older ones vying with each other to name the stars
they have been shown before.

“Follow the wing. There! There is her brother,
the Great War-Horse. He is horned, and can speak
through his rider’s mind.”

“Just like Turin?”

“Yes, dear, just like Lady Rifkind’s war-horse.
But Turin is only a child of the Horse God.”

“Show us the black horn.”

Linette smiles. Most of the children have heard
the tale time and again.

“The bright star of the right horn is visible, but a
greater star lies at the tip of the other. It is so
powerful that the very light of the stars which

~ comes to its Hold to serve it never leaves.

“When the Lost Gods created the gods we know
now, some wished to gain power over the rest. They
conspired to capture the War Goddess and force
her to aid them in battle. But she refused. They
bound her and threw her into a tower. But her
brother found her and freed her. They were both in
human form then, but when she was freed she

Section 1

turned again into a great black bird, and he into a
war-horse.

“As he galloped to safety, an evil demon seized
him by the horn. He whinnied in fear and pain. His
sister flew to his aid, fought the demon, and slew
him. But in his death struggle the demon tore loose
the horn. The sound of their battle attracted the
attention of the wicked gods, who had been search-
ing for the goddess and her brother. They flew to
the place, shrieking with glee that they had trapped
the holy pair.

“But the goddess seized her brother’s mane with
her talons and flapped her wings with all her might
and main. They rose into the night sky, and sought .
the protection of the Eldest of the Old, whose realm
it was. They were granted sanctuary, and now they
make their home among the stars.

“But the horn fell to earth, where it was found by
a servant of the god Mohandru, who carved it into
a warhorn. It is said that if a holy priest or priestess
sounds the horn in time of danger, the very gods
will appear to aid in battle, but if an evil man or
woman sounds the horn, the Hungry Gods who lie
in the earth awaiting their freedom will emerge and
destroy the world.”

Linette has told the story many times before; but
this time she feels a stirring of the mind powers
called tal. She had lost these powers years ago when
she had attempted to heal the man she loved in
opposition to the Laws. The Landmother herself
had come to her and taken the talents from her. But
so much had changed. Perhaps the Landmother has
forgiven Linette for her youthful errors.

Section 1

A wave of memories overwhelms this woman,
who has returned to the simple life of the farm. She
lives again the fear she felt when she heard her
parents were killed by brigands on a mountain
road. Again she relives the terrible journey to
Chatelgard, with its cold storms and fevered
dreams, in the company of Rifkind, the terrifying
and wonderful Asheeran warrior and witch who
saved and adopted her.

The flashes from her past dance faster now. How
delicious were her first lessons to test her magical
powers. How powerful was her headstrong determi-
nation to use them as she wished. She wonders,
Was that so wrong? What do the gods know of
survival, or dying, that they should judge us so
harshly?

Oblivious to her companions in the freshly
mowed field, Linette is swept up into the wheel of
the sky. How like a wheel is my life, she thinks. I
started as a farmer, and perhaps I shall end as a
farmer, but the journey that brought me here...
How wondrous.

She remembers, with bittersweet pain, her time
with Lord Humphry. To be virtual mistress of
Chatelgard, and even Glascardy, well, that was
something. But after the frightening magical battle
when Rifkind destroyed the great sorcerer An-
Soren, and Humphry had grabbed for the throne
... She shuddered. Linette had = shared
Humphry’s every battle and hardship with pride,
until that evil creature Krowlowja bewitched him.
Linette did not want to remember the final death
march to the land of the Quais, a fetid bog of

Section 1

oozing stinking gases that hid gruesome creatures
which killed but did not die. But the memories
forced themselves on her.

And there was Rifkind, again doing battle with
the evil power which Krowlowja released, and
which Humphry coveted. Alli for the Well of the
Black Flame. All for the power to create whatever
one could think of or imagine. Poor Humphry. He
wasn’t even human when he died.

But the final battle had lifted the cursed land
from the bog, and blessed it with rich soil and a
willing people to farm it. Here Linette had found
her place, teaching her childhood skills.

Here I am, back on the farm. And happy, but for
one thing. Linette is quietly crying, as the stars spin
above her.

It’s not fair, she thinks fiercely, I don’t want
power, and I don’t want to be a queen, but I didn’t
deserve to be made head blind. Give me back my
tal powers, she cries to the stars, please give that
back. Please.

Linette fishes around in her apron pocket and
withdraws a tiny black glassy stone, a piece of the
Black Flame. The Quais call it Memory Stone and
use it for seeing their past, and their future, as well
as for linking their lives when they were not one
people but isolated groups who lived and died on
floating barges.

She stares into it, praying silently, Please let me
see something. Please.

The stone is even blacker in her hand than the
sky is black above her head. Now she can see a light
emanating from the stone, and a face of a girl no

Section 1

older than she had been when Rifkind had found her.

She recognizes the face, Scatha, the girl of the
Quais who had followed Jovan and Jenny to
Chatelgard.

‘“‘Scatha, Scatha.”’ Her mind seeks out the child
half a world distant. ““Scatha, can you see the stars?
Can you see the Great Horse? Can you feel the
power of the black star which guards the horn?”

The image fades. Only a few moments have
passed and none have even noticed her psychic
absence as she withdrew into the tal state.

Thank you. Thank you, Linette sighs. Now she is
complete again. Her strong will and determination
have become an asset to the Quais people, her
people, and she is filled with peace and pride. The
chill of the night breaks her reverie.

““Let’s go in before we all freeze out here,” she
‘says, trying to sound as matter of fact as bread and
butter, wiping the last tears from her face.

Scatha saunters in from the practice field. She
has acquired a new bruise or two, but she has also
learned a new leg blow. She stops in the kitchen,
grabs up a handful of little nut cakes, and runs for it
as the cook bolts after her in hot pursuit, brandish-
_ ing a wooden stirring spoon.

“Out of here, you thief! Those are for tonight.
What will Lord Ejord say if we haven’t enough for
guests!”

But Scatha, with her long legs clad in leather
trews, easily outdistances the fat cook who is en-
cumbered with skirts, petticoats, and an apron
flapping around her short, stocky legs.

Section 1

Scatha, not even winded, makes her way along
the long corridors of Chatelgard, toward Jenny and
Jovan’s chambers. She pops the last of the cakes
into her mouth and brushes the crumbs from her
hands and mouth. The young cookie thief glances
around nervously as she nears the corridor which
leads to the formal council chambers and private
meeting rooms where the politics and policies of
Glascardy are made.

The chances of running into Ejord are slim, and
the chance he would notice or care that she had
stolen a few nut cakes was slimmer, but it was best
not to chance being on his wrong side.

She sighs, thinking about Lord Ejord. She likes
him, a lot, and wishes that he liked her, but it
doesn’t seem like she has a chance. Jenny says it is
because Scatha is so like Lady Rifkind, and that
Ejord has never forgotten her, even though he has a
beautiful wife and a dear baby daughter.

I’m never going to fall in love and be that silly,
she vows to herself. She is so lost in her thoughts
that she doesn’t see the white-robed and hooded
priest turning the corner of the corridor until she
runs into him.

“Oh, P’'m so sorry,” she splutters, turning apple
red with embarrassment. She reaches out to steady
the priest but only succeeds in knocking him back
against the wall. Mortified, she steps forward to
grab him by the arm before he falls. This sends him
tumbling to the ground. She helps him up and
tries to dust off the smudges from his white gar-
ment. ;

‘**Please, child. Please. No harm is done, but if

Section 1

you do not stop trying to help me, I may not live to
sing my evening office!”

“Oh, I didn’t mean...”

“Of course you didn’t. Bless you, child.” -

He waves his hand above her head, turns, and
rushes down the hall.

Scatha stands there a moment, going over what
has so suddenly happened, hoping to convince
herself that she didn’t make a complete fool of
herself. She prays to all the gods she can think of
that the priest is not going to see Ejord, and if he is,
he will not mention her. She is failing on all counts.
The priest rushes down the hall to the chamber
Ejord always uses for important guests.

Scatha is tingling with panic as her imagination
runs wild with potential disaster. What if Ejord
sends me back to the Quais? she worries. I’ll never
be a warrior. What if he blames Jovan for bringing
me here? Or Jenny for encouraging me to fight?

The sixteen-year-old girl has worked so hard,
proving her worth to every boy in the training class,
and the arms-master as well, by besting all the rest
of the class in running, climbing, sword practice,
despite the fact that she is the smallest, and one of
the youngest. Not to mention how bravely she has
put up with the endless variety of pranks designed
to make her quit. She often wondered if the boys
didn’t sit up nights thinking of things to make her
life hard. But she has hung on. Nonetheless, it all
hinges on the Lord of Chatelgard. If Ejord had
reason to send her away, well, that was that.

Now this pesky thing with the priest! Good sense
is telling Scatha to turn around and mind her

Section 1

business, but uncertainty, and perhaps a little curi-
osity, impels her to follow the holy man down the
hall. Curiosity wins and she tiptoes to the door of
the room he entered and presses her ear to the
keyhole.

*“*.. Guardians of the horn since time out of
mind. (Murph, mumble, mumble) could have en-
tered the inner sanctum. (Mumble, mumble) can’t
tell you how we protect (mumble, mumble).”

Scatha presses her other ear to the door in an
effort to get in a better position to eavesdrop. This
is the most interesting thing she has ever heard!
The speaker, probably the smudged priest, is pac-
ing back and forth. Between the sound of his
footsteps and the lack of sound when. he is pacing
away from the door, Scatha is frustrated at not
hearing much of what is going on.

This must be something important. Priests don’t
pace. They usually just sit there looking smug! she
muses, and strains even harder to hear.

Now Ejord’s voice. “‘I wish you well. I certainly
have no doubt that there are things beyond the
knowledge of mortal men, but I for one will not
commit the lives of my troops nor the resources of
this land to a search for an artifact. I have known
well at least one of these ‘sacred’ animals and there
was nothing godly about him. A magnificent beast,
yes. A god, no. His horn, if you were foolish enough
to try to remove it, or lucky enough to succeed,
would have made a dandy hunting horn. No doubt
it would have called all my woodsmen for a quarter
mile. But the Lost Gods? Ha!”

Scatha leans harder on the door. She must get

Section 2

closer if she wants to hear the priest’s answer.
Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, turn to section 3.

If the total is greater than the value on the record
sheet for Scatha’s Dexterity, turn to section 2.

ee Fae.

The priest’s voice gets louder and resonates in a
manner Scatha would never have guessed the pale
little man could muster. “Consider your words
well, my lord. Should you fail to aid us in this holy
cause, we shall cast you under interdict.”

Scatha feels prickles of fear on the back of her
neck. Under interdict! No priests would come to
marry folk, or hold festivals, bury the dead, or
perform any other rites. If Mohandru was angry
with Ejord, well, then all of Chatelgard would be
cursed with him. Scatha shifts closer to hear
Ejord’s answer when suddenly, too suddenly to run
for cover, the door handle turns, the door is pulled
open with a firm jerk, and she tumbles into the
white-robed priest. He staggers, holding the door
handle for dear life, but they both fall back into the
room, landing together in an untidy and undigni-
fied heap.

Scatha, with fighter reflexes she wishes she had

Section 3

used a moment before, manages to roll off the
floundering priest. For one brief moment Scatha
thinks of bolting, but realizes that would not help
much. She bounds to her feet and offers a hand to
help the priest up. He looks very angry, and some-
how Scatha is not surprised.

“What are you doing here?” The ice in Ejord’s
voice might bring winter a month early this year.

Scatha stares at her feet, studying the scuff marks
on her boots very carefully.

“Well?” he insists.

“Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything.” Why do I
always say such stupid things to him. No wonder he
doesn’t like me, she thinks to herself, miserably.

“Run off and make yourself presentable for din-
ner.” Ejord’s tone has softened. If Scatha only had
the nerve to look up, she would have seen a half
smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes, but she is
too embarrassed, and too frightened that her
dream of being a great warrior like Rifkind is about
to end. As fast as politeness will let her, she runs
down the hall to the corridor leading to her small
room.

Turn to section 4.

*« 3 x

The priest’s voice gets louder and resonates in a
manner Scatha would never have guessed the pale
little man could muster. “Consider your words

Section 3

well, my lord. Should you fail to aid us in this holy
cause, we shall cast you under interdict.”

Scatha feels prickles of fear on the back of her
neck. Under interdict! No priests would come to
marry folk, or hold festivals, bury the dead, or
perform any other rites. If Mohandru was angry
with Ejord, well, then all of Chatelgard would be
cursed with him. Scatha shifts closer to hear
Ejord’s answer when suddenly she hears the rattle
of the lock as a hand firmly grasps the door handle.

Oh, dear gods, Scatha thinks as she jumps back
with a fighter’s trained reflexes, I’m going to get
caught. She bolts down the hall, trying not to notice
the ringing sound of her scuffed boots as they slam
against the stone floor. As she reaches the corner at
the end of the corridor, the priest pulls open the
door with a determined jerk, and strides into the
hall, just in time to spy the leather-clad girl dashing
away. Ejord, too, sees her. He shakes his head
slightly as a half smile comes to his lips and a
twinkle to his eyes.

Scatha is still thinking about her collision with
this powerful and important guest, fretting that she
may have been seen. She worries that her dream of
being a great warrior like Rifkind is about to end as
she runs down the hall to the corridor leading to
-her small room.

Turn to section 4.

Section 4

* @ x

Scatha pushes open the wooden door, slams it
behind her, quickly pulls off her boots, and flops
down on her bed. She wishes she could bunk with
her young swordbrothers, but that is impossible.
The best she can do is live as much like the rest of
the trainees as she can. Her bed is a simple soldier’s
cot, with the same two blankets of coarse brown
wool issued to any of the boys. She knows the small
hearth will warm her room more than the single
great stove at the end of the barracks far below, but
that can’t be helped. Worse yet, Jenny insists that
she wear dresses and sit at table with the lesser
relatives of the household, and even learn to sew
and dance. But Scatha, politely but firmly, puts her
foot down at the lovely warm-colored rugs and
tapestries which Jenny offered her to cheer up the
tiny room.

The first chill of winter has left a skin of frost on
the stone ledges of the windows of the great rooms
below, but up high in the keep it is still warm.
Scatha lies on the bed, breathing in the privacy and
_ quiet, for once grateful for a room of her own. Her

“heavy brown hair glints red in the golden late-

autumn sunshine pouring in through the leaded
glass panes of the small, high window. Finally
relaxing, she dreamily watches the shadows of the

Section 4

leaves on an ancient vine as they dance on the
whitewashed plaster walls and disappear onto the
dark brown timbering.

A looming shadow startles her out of her reverie.
She jumps up and spins toward the window. But it
is only a crow, sitting on the ledge staring in at her.

“Sorry, Mother Crow. No crumbs left for you.”

With a caw, the bird flies off. Scatha is left with
an odd empty feeling as she watches it go.

Scatha opens her chest and pulls out “girl
clothes” for dinner, but stops to finger her old blue
leather pouch, which holds all her best things. On
impulse, she draws out the Memory Stone which
she inherited from Pasca, the first of the Quais
women to fight, and the first to die in the great
battle which reclaimed the land of the Quais from
the curse which had drowned it.

“Honored Memory Stone,” Scatha began uneasi-
ly, “I really don’t know how to use you, or if you
will be angry if I do, but please, please tell me what
to do to make Ejord proud of me.”

She stares into the fist-sized black stone. It seems
so ordinary, looking more like a piece of chipped
black glass than a magical gift. Disappointed, she
starts to put it down when suddenly her hand
tingles. The stone in her hand has begun to glow, its
opaque blackness fading away until it’s transpar-
ent. She stares in wonder as figures are formed out
of the shining glow.

“It’s Aunt Linette! And my friends from home! I
must be dreaming.”

Section 4

But this dream is so real that Scatha can hear
Aunty Linny telling the stories of the stars, the one
about the Lost Horn of the Horse God. Linette
looks at her from out of the stone and calls out
softly, ““Scatha, Scatha.”

Scatha drops the stone with a sharp gasp. The
sound of it clattering on the floor brings her out of
her reverie. Picking up the stone gingerly, but not
looking at it too directly, she stuffs it back into her
pouch. With the pouch securely tucked in the chest,
she quickly dresses for supper and dashes out of the
room.

The place of honor beside Ejord at the high table
is empty. Ejord is dressed in his second-best tunic,
richly embroidered in reds and golds, and the food
is clearly holiday fare. The quiet tension in the hall
announces loudly that something has gone wrong.
Scatha muses that she may be the only person in
the hall besides Ejord who knows that the special
guest was to be a very angry and slightly disheveled
priest. Even the gentle and gracious presence of
Ejord’s lady fails to cheer the evening.

A freckled red-headed lad from the barracks is
serving at Scatha’s table, part of the training of a
house karl, and one of the tasks denied to Scatha.
Each time he brings a course to her place he
sarcastically calls her ““my lady Scatha” and bows
to her with an exaggerated flourish. Scatha is morti-
fied by his pointed teasing. The last course is a
creamed pudding, usually Scatha’s favorite, al-
though tonight she wishes dinner were over. As her

Section 4

tormentor comes to her place he trips, and very
handily pours the creamy mess right down her
back, pardoning himself with a “How clumsy of
me, dear lady!’ Scatha, ready to die of embarrass-
ment, feels the cold slop ooze down her back as
everyone waits for her reaction. She turns on him,
fiercely whispering, “Pll get you for this.”” But as
she turns the pudding splashes onto her table-
mates. Their sympathy quickly turns to anger.
Everything is going from bad to worse. She clumsi-
ly climbs out from the long bench and dashes out of
the hall.

This has been the worse day of my life, she thinks
as she washes off the pudding, slips into a sleeping
robe, and climbs into bed. But sleep only brings
dreams, terrible dreams, of crows and battles, and
all manner of scaled demons: some which swoop
down on her, talons outstretched; others which
crawl up her legs, biting her flesh away. She wakes
up screaming, her legs and arms still aching from
the bites and scratches of her dreams. Knowing
she’ll never get back to sleep, Scatha lights an oil
lamp from the coals in her hearth.

Neither moon is in the sky. The crow is back,
~ staring at Scatha from the window ledge. Unrea-
sonably frightened, Scatha goes to the corner of her
room farthest from the window, using her bed to
~ blot out the staring eye of the crow which glows like
a coal from her grate. But it is no good. The eye of
the crow burns into her thoughts, and she hears a
voice in her mind, a voice which cannot be denied. -

Section 4

Stare into the stone, it commands. Stare into the
stone. Scatha obediently opens her small chest and
pulls out her tattered blue pouch.

All the while she is obeying the demanding voice,
two other voices are quarreling inside her mind.
One is saying, rationally, Perhaps my magic stone is
good for something besides scaring me. Perhaps its
magic will protect me. After all, it was Pasca’s and
she was good and kind and brave. The stone couldn't
be less than its owner, could it? While the other part
is screaming, You ninny, don’t look!

But the commanding eye in Scatha’s mind wins
out, and Scatha peers deeply into the glowing stone
in her hand. And in it, Scatha sees a vision.

The wizard Drukor stoops over his smoking
brazier, throwing nameless things onto the coals
which sputter and smoke. The dark power of his
spirit makes him appear larger than his wizened
frame. Few could withstand a look from the eye
which always squints out from an ancient sear. He
spits into the sizzling stench, and with gestures and
unheard words, the smoke solidifies into a creature
so evil, so ugly, dripping such putrid venom, that
the very beetles, rats, and lizards which scurry
along the floor of the wizard’s cave scuttle to hide.
At its master’s command, the black dripping thing
oozes down the cave’s passage and into the night. It
flies to the nearby temple where the holy horn is
kept. It slithers into the hallowed place, breaking
the magical wards of centuries, its very presence

Section 4

instantly killing the holy guardians of the horn.
Grasping the scared relic in what cannot quite be
called a hand, it retraces its path to the cave where
its master waits. Drukor commands the creature to
drop the horn, and, before the demon can betray its
master, Drukor destroys it as swiftly as he had
created it.

Drukor grabs the horn and holds it aloft in
triumph, shouting with mad glee, ““Mine, mine.
The horn is mine.’

He bends over a scrying bowl and stirs the water.
“The conjunction is but one month away.
Mmmmm. The temple in the middle of the
Asheeran Waste is the place. Aha! I should have
guessed it. And when I blow this horn the power of
the gods will be mine; the demons of the Unnamed
Realm, my army; and all men of this world, my

slaves.”

Scatha is shaking and sweating with fear as the
vision fades, Drukor’s uncanny laugh ringing in her
ears. Oh, this is scary, she thinks as she draws her
legs up, her bony knees almost touching her chin.
Magic is something uncommon and mysterious;
something Scatha has rarely come across in her
young life. Magic is a tool of the powerful, and this
wizard seemed strong indeed. And evil. But Scatha
couldn’t understand why she had been sent this
vision. Slowly the pattern of the last few hours
crystallizes in her mind. The priest’s mission, her
- two encounters with the Memory Stone, al! lead

Section 4

her to the same thought. She had asked the stone
what she could do to make Ejord proud of her, and
the stone had answered: save the world. Great. She
must reclaim the horn, and within a month.

Scatha dresses in her leathers, packs just a few
things, carefully tucking the stone with its pouch in
her pack, and sneaks down to the armory. There
she takes a sword and a small shield.

She has no food, but it is too risky to raid the
kitchen. She has no horse, but she is afraid to wake
the stable boy. There are but a few copper pennies
in her pouch, but she could always win at rolling
knuckle-bones in the barracks, and she hopes she’ll
be able to do so at inns on the road.

She slips out of a chink in the wall past the night
watch and plunges headlong into her quest.

By dawn, Scatha is footsore and weary—and
starving. How could I have run away on a dream,
and a bad one at that? she wonders plaintively. No
plan. No idea of where I am or where I’m going.
I’ve got to be out of my head!

The night was warm for the season, but now a fog
is beginning to roll in. With it comes a chill which
could herald an early snow or a killing frost. How
different were the semitropical bogs of her child-
hood from these savage mountains.

Within minutes she can barely see the road
under her feet, although occasional gusts of wind
clear the fog enough for her to see the giant black
shadows of ancient trees lining the road. Enveloped
in the eerie whiteness, she wanders off the road a

Section 4

few times before she discovers the trick of walking
on the edge of the road to keep from losing herself
in the blinding cloud. The fog rings with a frighten-
ing hum. She hears her feet crunch along, but she
feels as if she is not moving. This is becoming a
nightmare. Frightened and tired, Scatha stops and
rests by the side of the road. Overwhelmed by
exhaustion, she soon dozes off.

The sound of men and at least one horse ap-
proaching up the road wakes her up.

“I can’t see you, Jessed.” The words swirl
through the mist without direction.

“Karl, can you see me? Here. Hold the end of my
cloak.”

“Quiet, both of you. Where are the rest?”

“They stopped a while back. Can’t see them
anymore. Brel’s tits, can’t see anything.”

““Walk by the edge. Follow the loose gravel. It will
keep you on the road. Inn should be ahead pretty
soon.”

“Better be. Holy Vitivar, I can’t take this much
more.”

Scatha hears the voices coming closer. She is cold
and lonely and could use some companions on the
road. And maybe these men can spare some bread.
On the other hand, these are dangerous times, and
the forest is still full of bands of brigands left
homeless from the recent wars. Thank Mohandru,
at least these don’t seem to be a band of the
half-human, half-animal Mountain Men. But still,
she wonders if she wouldn’t be better off traveling
alone. They are approaching. She must decide
soon. :

Section 5

If Scatha decides to approach the strangers, turn to
section 8.

If she decides to hide, turn to section 7.

x & x

To the desert lord’s credit, he withstands the mind-
searing insanity of the light storm, although the
madness in his eyes reflects the nameless terrors he
sees crowding the tent. But still he shouts orders to
his terrified kinsmen and slaves.

“Send for Arlis the Healer,” he bellows, his face
involuntarily twisting itself into a horrible smile.

But it is too late. Already the evil oozes across the
desert in a madness more terrible than the storm.
The tribal witch never comes, as all in the camp are
consumed by the hunger of the unnameable crea-
tures released by Drukor’s desire.

Turn to section 29.

Section 6

* @ *

To the desert lord’s credit, he withstands the mind-
searing insanity of the light storm, although the
madness in his eyes reflects the nameless terrors he
sees crowding the tent. But still he shouts orders to
his terrified kinsmen and slaves.

“Send for Arlis the Healer,” he bellows, his face
involuntarily twisting itself into a horrible smile.

“There is no need, Lord. I am here.”

The old woman strides in with a poise Scatha has
not seen in the other desert women, nor is her face
covered. But it is her eyes which blaze with un-
earthly power, eyes like that of the Master of the
Dark Brethren, but eyes also like that of the witches
and elders in the dungeon. The healer’s eyes bring
Scatha back to sanity, and the warrior tells the
wisewoman of her quest.

“I know the place we seek. It is not far,” the old
woman proclaims. Turning to a young woman who
accompanies her, she orders, “Bring my student
warriors, mounted and armed, and any prisoners
who are able and willing to go.”

The leader winces, but does not argue.

“And Harold, the prisoner with the hair the color
of sand,” Scatha shouts after the girl, “and my
sword and armor!”

In brief minutes they are all mounted and riding
into the storm. Arlis breaks the silence of the ride,

Section 6

if riding through screaming wind, alive with night-
mare colors and demons of the mind, can be called
silent.

“What god do you serve, child?’ the healer
shouts at Scatha.

“What do you mean?” the warrior-maid shouts
back.

Arlis looks puzzled, and a little shocked. “You
mean you have come all this way and you don’t
even know who has chosen you?”

“Well, maybe Hanju,” Scatha says, and offers a
brief explanation, although simple conversation
takes all her effort in the insistent wind.

“A Lost God? No,” Arlis argues, frowning.
“From what you say you are lucky he didn’t kill
you somewhere along the way, by accident if noth-
ing else. He is not the kind of god I mean.”

“Is it important that I know?”

“Perhaps.” The old woman begins to chant,
oblivious to the screaming wind and swirling col-
ors. ;
The repetitive rhythm of the woman’s rough
voice draws Scatha from the fury of the storm, and
she finds herself so still she feels as though she is
_ part of the sand and the rocks, and not on a wild
ride mounted on a horned war-horse.

Then she feels herself floating, but when she
looks down, she sees herself huddled on the saddle,
“gripping the steed’s reigns and mane for purchase
as they gallop across the dreamscape of the storm-
blown desert. Her spirit spirals upward. Cold wind
streams past her, and she hears the flapping of great

Section 6

wings. Are they her wings? She can almost feel her
arms outstretched, beating up and down, and the
pleasant pull as her feathers press against the wind.
Then it is as though the wings are under her arms,
supporting her as she glides through the darkness.

Suddenly she is standing before a woman, a
woman whose long black robe does not hide the
muscled body of a warrior. Just as suddenly the
robe dissolves and the woman is dressed in black
leather armor, with shining golden rings sewn on it.
Long black hair cascades out from under a beaked
helmet.

“Do you not know me, my child?” Her voice is
authority itself. ““Why have you not called on me?”

Scatha stands in silent terror. Finally she man-
ages to croak out an answer. “‘Please, Lady. I’m sort
of new at this. What did I do wrong?”

“Wrong!” The goddess’s voice fills the void.
“You have insulted me. You have called on
Mohandru, and that old villain Hanju, Brel, and a
dozen more. Who called you to this quest? Who has
stood by your side this entire time? Did you once
call my name? Did you once pray to me!”

Scatha’s fear has melted into anger. “‘Pray to
who? And just where were you the dozen times I
faced death, and despair? Were you in the moun-
tains? Where were you when the Dark Brethren
captured me? Damn you, who are you?” By now
she is shrieking with rage.

Still shaking with fury she stares defiantly at the
goddess, but the goddess is smiling. “I chose well,
my little battle raven. I am Morigu, Lady of Battle.

Section 6

You are mine, and,” she adds more gently, “I am
yours. Summon me in your greatest need. You
serve me and you serve my brother.”

“The Crow Lady!” Scatha exclaims.

The goddess’s laugh resounds and reverberates in
the void, echoing down the corridors of the
warrior-woman’s mind. The dream-time passes,
and Scatha returns to her body, gripping the charg-
ing war-horse for dear life. They rein to a halt as a
ruined temple comes into sight.

“This is the place,” Arlis says, pointing her staff
at the crumbling building.

Scatha shouts orders to the riders. They form up
in a standard Dro Darian wedge, which calls for
some serious discussion with the Asheeran warri-
ors, who are used to charging in a line, their major
tactic being enthusiasm. They trot toward what
appears to be the entrance.

“Prepare to charge. . . . Charge!”

The unit breaks into a gallop. The eerie wind
blows up with renewed violence, like the insistent
intensity of a bully’s assault, and the charge peters
to a walk as the horses and riders mill about in
confusion.

One of the Asheeran warriors throws his hands
to his head and begins to scream. “Stop them, they
are crawling on me,” he moans, sliding from his
mount and writhing on the sand, tearing at invisi-
ble vermin.

“Stop it.” Arlis’s voice cuts through the madness,
and her touch banishes the nightmare vision.

“The horses are worse off than we are. Dismount.

Section 6

Damn it, dismount,” Scatha orders fiercely. On her
command the unit dogtrots to the entrance of the
ruin; only Arlis’s screaming threats keep them sane.

As Scatha jogs along she sees the sand turn the
most beautiful blue, with highlights of ruby and
gold. It swirls around her ankles, becoming living
tendrils. A voice in her head calls seductively to her
to lie down and sleep, sleep forever. Warmth ca-
resses her body, promising peace. She enters her
own private hell, where the tranquility she yearns
for brings only death. With vague knowledge of
Arlis’s help, her consciousness fights against that
which seeks to bind it. Through eyes not quite her
own, she can see her men fighting visions, but still
the warriors somehow stay together. Soon they are
at the gap where a thick door once hung, and then,
without stopping, they are through it.

Inside, in a huge chamber, by an ancient altar,
stands a robed wizard, the great horn at his lips.

“Stop him!” Scatha shouts.

In a mad rush they converge on him. He pauses,
turns, and almost nonchalantly sets down the horn
on the altar and reaches for his staff.

Great words of power issue from his mouth, and
a beam of blinding light blasts from the jeweled tip
of his staff. Arlis shouts back an incantation, but
her words sound weak in comparison.

As they watch in horror, an army of monstrous
demons materializes from the wizard’s words.

Scatha stands mesmerized, then shakes her head
to break the spell of fascination.

“Attack. Kill them. They can be killed,” she

Section 6

orders. Her voice breaks the spell for her men, and
the unit attacks. Drukor once again lifts the horn to
his lips.. Scatha rushes toward him, cutting down
creatures in her way. She can almost see the first
burst of sound begin to stream from the great
curved horn. As it blares out, the ground begins to
roil under her, sending her reeling back. The floor
of the chamber cracks and splits, spitting up clouds
of noxious gases and revealing a churning hell of
molten living rock.

She looks in horror as the spewing, burning rock
manifests itself into huge, horrible demon gods,
creatures whose burning eyes and evil purpose
dwarf the creatures which Drukor conjured, de-
mons rising On wings, crawling on clawed feet,
shrieking, slobbering venom, tumbling out of the
red-black ooze which rolls out of the chasm.

In the midst of this chaos stands Drukor, his
arms thrown back in triumph, his face twisted in
fiendish laughter.

If Scatha has a Gift of Hanju left, and she decides to
use it, turn to section 115.

If Scatha has a Gift of Hanju left, and she decides
not to use it, turn to section 116.

If Scatha does not have a Gift of Hane left, turn to
section 116.

Section 7

x 9 x

Yearning for companionship, Scatha starts to get
up to go out to the road and hail them down, but
she just can’t do it. Something inside her, her “little
voice,” is screaming warnings. A girl alone in the
forest! She must have been crazy to think of just
walking out there and saying, “Hello, my lords.
Would you care for a companion on the road, and
by the way, may I have a hot capon and a mug of ale
at your expense?”

As they approach her, she grabs her pack and
dives for the hollow by the edge of the road.

“What’s that?” one of the men asks.

“What?”

“A noise. I thought I heard a noise.”

“Probably a rabbit.” The men laugh.

Scatha has hidden none too soon. They are
almost in front of her now. She blesses the fog. If it
was a Clear- night, she would be practically in plain
sight.

Remember that Wisdom is also the Luck of the
Gods. Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Wisdom/Luck value, turn to section 11.

If the total is greater than her Wisdom/Luck value,
turn to section 9.

Section 9

x & x

The dark shadows of three men, one leading a
horse, stumble into view. She.cannot even make
out their faces.

A woman alone in the mountains, she argues
with herself. I guess in this stuff I might pass for a
boy. But the stories about the Mountain Men keep
shouting in her mind. This is probably the
stupidest thing I have ever done in my life. As she
gets up and steps out into the road, the thought hits
her, This may be the last stupid thing I ever do in
my life. But it is too late to go back now.

“Hello there,” Scatha shouts, making her voice
as deep as possible.

“Who is it?” The men stop, and make an unmis-
takable move even in this fog: They reach for their
swords.

Turn to section 10.

* @ x

“TY tell you, Karl, I heard a noise, and no rabbit, or
even a deer.”

They stop directly in front of where she is lying
in the ditch in a bed of wet foxtails, trying to hold
her breath. A blade of the grass flutters up her nose.

Section 10

She feels a sneeze coming. She tries to stop it but
can’t.
“‘Achoo!”’

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Wisdom/Luck value, turn to section 11.

If the total is greater than Scatha’s Wisdom/Luck
value, turn to section 21.

Scatha freezes. Now she may have to test her
warrior skills for the first—and possibly the last—
time. Driven by the importance of her quest, she
knows she has to stay alive.

“T got caught in the fog. Going to see, uh, uh, my
mother. Uh, that is... my ’prentice master, um,
let me, um, go home. My mother is sick. Um,
dying.” She finishes with a flourish.

None of the men answer. The silence is deafen-
ing. The leader hands the reins of his horse to
another fellow and comes up to her, his hand still
on his sword.

“Really, boy?”

“Yes, sir. May I join you till we get to an inn or
village? Kind of scary in the fog alone. I’ve heard
that Mountain Men have been seen nearby.”

Section 11

The leader is a huge man, with a black curly
beard. He wears a black wool cloak with the hood
pulled up, but Scatha can clearly see an iron cap
and mail shirt underneath. He stares at her out of
unnerving light blue eyes. She doesn’t like him at
all.

“Dying mother, eh!”

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Charisma value, turn to section 14.

If the total is greater than her Charisma value, go to
section 13.

“There, again! I told you.”

Just then a puff of wind clears the fog a bit.
Scatha lies so still she can hear her blood pound.
The men are looking around. They are not more
than three feet from her.

The leader is a huge man, with a black curly
beard. He wears a black wool cloak with the hood
pulled up, but Scatha can clearly see an iron cap
and mail shirt underneath. He is staring in her
direction out of unnerving light blue eyes. She
doesn’t like him at all.

Scatha prays silently to every god she has ever

Section 11

heard of for the fog to come back twice as thick.
Her prayer is answered, and the white mist locks
her in before she is seen.

“It is nothing.” The deep voice is now no more
than a foot or two from her. “Keep moving.”

The frightened girl lies silently by the road,
sobered by the near encounter. Not that this quest
is a lark for her, but the sight of these grim men has
given new meaning to the word danger. She lies by
the road awhile until she is sure they are gone. Who
in Brel’s Hell were those bucks? she wonders,
reviewing the incident in her mind for some clue.

“Oh, Holy Mohandru,” she exclaims aloud,
“they said there were more of them down the
road!”

She is torn between hiding until the second half
of the party passes her and pressing on. Damn it, I
just can’t spare the time, she thinks. I could wait
here all day. Better to risk moving on, but I will
have to stay sharp and listen for them. Still debat-
ing with herself, she clambers back onto the road,
but it is some time before she can stop herself from
starting at every innocent forest sound.

The fog has burned off a little. It is still gray and
damp, but Scatha has relaxed enough to make
reasonable time. Scatha’s old boots crunch along
the gravelly path. The fog is still patchy, blowing in
wisps of white which surround her now and again.
Scatha stumbles along until a loud cracking sound
brings her up short in a wave of fear. I’m getting
light-headed, she thinks. Come on, girl, she chides
herself, you’ve not been fasting for a week. It has

Section 11

only been one morning. But nonetheless, she knows
she is feeling funny. She looks around at the forest
edge. Maybe she will find something to take the
edge off her hunger and thirst. She wanders off the
road and stops to look and listen. She hears a
stream nearby, and she knows there will be wild
berry bushes near it, and maybe some late-summer
fruit the birds have missed.

Sure enough, berry bushes, heavy with the blue-
black fruit she loves, lie almost within reach, grow-
ing in rocky crevices all the way down to the
streambed which lies at the bottom of a rocky
ravine. It takes the warrior no time at all to climb
down to them. Balanced on a small rock, she
reaches out to pick a particularly fat juicy berry.

The rock slips from beneath her foot, and she
and a cascade of small rocks start to roll down
toward the stream, picking up momentum as they
go. She reaches out to catch a small tree as she
thunders past, but misses.

Whomp! She slams into a log, driving a branch
into her side. She cries out in pain and pulls herself
free.

This is going to hurt, she mutters to herself as she
pulls out the branch and binds the deep gash. But
she is angry with herself for getting hurt so stu- ~
pidly.

At least ’'m going to get something out of this,
she reasons. She eats a handful of the berries, and
gratefully splashes her face in the cold sweet water.
Finally she faces the struggle back up the hill to the
road.

Section 13
Roll 1 D6 to determine damage to Scatha.

Turn to section 16.

x JD x

A wave of nausea hits first, then dizziness sends her
to the ground. The brave girl lies helpless as the
poison works its way into her body and paralyzes
her inch by inch. All the strength in the world
wouldn’t help now, and Scatha knows it.

Turn to section 29.

x JS x

The leader throws back his head and laughs, but the
laugh is cold and hard, and not at all reassuring.
Scatha reaches for her sword.

The smile fades from the leader’s lips.

In tones as icy as winter he steps aside and says,
‘Karl, do me the favor of skewering this peasant.”

“With pleasure, my lord.”

Karl, a wiry little man with a red mustache,
draws his sword and springs toward Scatha.

She parries his swing and spins to counterpunch
his blow as he passes her. He is quick and skilled,
but he has not reckoned on skill in a “peasant.”
Scatha knows he will not make that mistake again.

Section 14

But she has gained the time to pull her shield loose
from her pack. Karl’s next blow bounces harmless-
ly off the shield rim.

KARL, A BLACK RIDER |

To hit Scatha: 12 To be hit: 12 Hit points: 7
Damage with sword: | D6 (The fog is going to make
clean targeting a little hard for both sides.)

If Scatha is killed; turn to section 29.

If she kills Karl, turn to section 22.

The leader throws back his head and laughs. He
plants his hands on his hips and stares at her out of
his soul-searing blue eyes. Scatha reaches for her
sword.

“There is no need for that, boy,” the leader says,
with a thin smile. “Sick mother, uh, dying!’ he
mimicks her. Then he laughs again. By now the
other men are laughing also.

“All right, my little runaway, or thief, or whatev-
er you are. You may follow along with us. But mind
your manners and stay out of the way.” His voice
has taken on an icy chill.

““Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Scatha replies. It takes
little acting on her part to sound relieved and
grateful.

She drops back and tags along behind. The fog

Section 14

has burned off a little. It is still gray and damp, but
at least they can make reasonable time now.

By midmorning the sun breaks through. The sky
is a brilliant azure blue and puffy white clouds
sparkle in the crisp air. The dark green humps of
moss set off the delicate pale gray-green of the
lichen crusting the north side of the black tree
trunks along the road. Pale yellow-green streamers
of moss hang from the branches, and all the forest
is bejeweled with shimmering drops of dew, the
legacy of the fog.

Scatha can almost forget her fear and the events
of the morning when she stops to listen to the
chatter of birds, but the dull thud of boots and the
sound of men’s voices behind her remind her again
that she is in strange company, alone and very
much outnumbered. The other half of this mysteri-
ous party is finally catching up.

Fighting an urge to jump off the road. into the
nearest ditch, Scatha tries to make herself incon-
spicuous as she steals a glance behind her. There
are four men jogging in double-time, their black-
hooded cloaks flapping out behind them.

Karl and Jessed stop and shout to them, but their
leader yells, “Keep going, you sluggards. Those
cowards will catch up or not as they will.”

Soon the other four join the party, breathlessly
exchanging gossip with Karl and Jessed until the
leader puts a stop to it with a roar of “shut up!”

One of the newcomers is staring at Scatha as
they quickly march along. He whispers something
to Karl. Scatha can hear Karl whisper back,

Section 15

“.. some lost lad .. . sick mother... .” The new-
comer guffaws but is silenced by a look from the
leader.

The road has been descending and leveling for
the last hour, and there are now broad leaf trees
mixed in with the stands of pines.

At the next bend of the road, but still in the
distance, Scatha can make out the inn-yard wall, a
weathered and dilapidated affair of stone with large
wattle patches. Hopefully when they arrive at the
inn she can escape from this unwanted company.
Scatha sighs with relief, even though there is a good
half hour’s journey down the road. She has avoided
conversation with the hooded and cloaked men,
but the skinny one has darted looks at her all day.

Oh, no! Here he comes again, she worries. Her
curious companion has stopped by the roadside.
There is no way to avoid him if she goes on.

If Scatha decides to duck into the woods, turn to
section 30.

If Scatha decides to bluff it out, turn to section 31.

A wave of nausea hits first, then dizziness sends her
to the ground. The brave girl lies helpless as the
poison works its way into her body and paralyzes
her inch by inch as she drifts into a coma.

Section 16

Roll I D6.

Subtract this number from the number of days left
before the conjunction. Also use this number to heal
Scatha by this many hit: points, up to but not above
her original number. After all, the long sleep has to
_ be good for something!

Turn to section 103.

Nervously Scatha walks down the road, sometimes
breaking into a jog. The knowledge that there are
men coming up the road behind her drives her on.
She stops, now and then, to silence the crunch of
her boots on the gravelly road and listens. Nothing
so far.

The sun breaks through. The sky is a brilliant
azure blue and puffy white clouds sparkle in the
crisp air. The dark green humps of moss set off the
delicate pale gray-green of the lichen crusting
the north side of the black tree trunks along the
road. Pale yellow-green streamers of moss hang from
the branches, and all the forest is bejeweled with
shimmering drops of dew, the legacy of the fog.

Scatha almost forgets her fear and the events of
the morning, so entrancing is the chatter of birds,
when she hears the dull thud of boots and the
sound of men’s voices behind her.

In a flash, the young warrior is off the road, over
the ditch, into the forest, and huddled behind a tree

Section 17

in a tangle of branches and debris, and none too
soon.

It is a miracle of Mohandru that they have not
seen her dash into the woods. There are four men,
all cloaked and hooded in black, but the dark mark
on their faces stands out clearly as they pass her.

She takes no chances, waiting a long time on the
rich loam under the tree before setting out again.

But the near encounter has left her jumpy as she
continues, and she finds herself wondering if there
are still more groups behind her. Perhaps this was
only the vanguard of an army of black-robed sol-
diers.

The road has been steadily descending and there
are now broad leaf trees mixed in with the stands of
pines. The ground is almost level as she rounds a
bend and she sees an inn-yard wall, a weathered
and dilapidated affair of stone with large wattle
patches. But the best sight of all is the blessed inn.

Turn to section 17.

x 47 x

Scatha would run to the inn compound if she had
the strength, but by now all her adventuring has
taken its toll. She is shaking from shock, exhaus-
tion, and her wounds.

The first thing she sees as she stumbles through
the inn-yard gate is the bearded leader’s horse tied
to a post. What irony, she thinks as she backs into

Section 17

the shadow of an old twisted oak in the yard. The
wall was built to keep brigands out.

Scatha surveys the courtyard, trying to decide if
she should bolt back into the woods, or find a
refuge here. The stables lie along the west wall, the
main house along the east, the kitchens in the wing
to the left of the massive public room.

‘Are you all right, lad?”

With a surge of fear Scatha spins around to meet
the owner of the voice, drawing her sword as she
moves.

“Easy, easy.” A large burly boy, about seventeen
or eighteen summers, with ash blond hair falling
into his eyes, is backing away from her.

““Thank Mohandru, you’re not . . .”” The relieved
girl groans and drops her sword with a clatter to the
cobblestones, following it with a crash.

When her eyes flutter open, the blond lad is
kneeling next to her, fumbling to unbuckle her
leather hauberk.

“No, no.” Scatha weakly tries to push him away.
“‘Don’t let them find me. Please hide me. Please.”

‘““You’re bleeding. You’re hurt. I can carry you in,
- boy.” The blond lad’s face is creased with concern.
“I’m sure the innkeeper won’t turn you away.”

“No. The men who came here...”

“In trouble with them? I’m not surprised. They
didn’t seem a proper lot to me, either. All right. But
I will bring help. But first .. .”” He sweeps her up,
carries her to a room behind the stables, and puts
her in his bed.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, and it
seems as if no time has passed when she hears

Section 17

whispering near her. She reluctantly forces her eyes
open. There is someone vaguely familiar standing
over her, but the wounded and weary girl cannot
remember who it is. But then again, she isn’t
having much better luck remembering who she is,
or where she is.

“Well, child,” says the familiar-looking man,
who is deftly unbuckling her armor. “You seem
determined to force me to commit this robe to the
sacred flame.” He is now cutting away her shirt and
underlinens, and splattering himself with blood in
the process.

“Oh, you!” Scatha exclaims.

“He’s.a girl!” stutters the blond boy, who is
standing behind the white-robed priest, blushing.

““Of course she is a girl, and a very brave one, I
suspect. There, there. Don’t move.” He fumbles
around in a small pack, seizes a vial, and scuttles to
the small hearth fire. Muttering some incantation,
he pours the oily contents onto the coals. Blue
smoke fills the room with a calming fragrance.
Returning to the bed, he gently places his hands on
Scatha’s wounds. One by one they glow, aching
almost more than she can bear. When she doesn’t
think she can bear the pain any longer, it fades
away. Suddenly without the pain she has lived with
for hours, the young soldier feels both weary and
elated in a delicious way. But the relief does not last
as the terrible responsibility of the quest rolls back
over her like a dark fog. And that reminds her of
the black-cloaked band.

‘“Those men,” she demands of the priest, ““who
are they?”

Section 17

“They are the enemy, child. One of the enemies,
and there are many. They are members of the Dark
Brethren, but not true initiates of Vitivar. An-
Soren was the last of those, or so we think. But his
followers still exist, even though he does not, at
least in this world.

**An-Soren,” he lectures on, “‘was the evil sorcer-
er who was defeated by the lady Rifkind at the
beginning of the last great war. So perhaps they also
seek the horn. It would return them to power.”

“But what brings you to this place, child? Did
Ejord send you away, or did you run away? No,
don’t lie. I know you overheard me when I begged
your lord for help.”

Part of Scatha wants to babble the whole tale to
the Mohandru priest, but part of her doesn’t want
to tell anybody anything.

The priest puts his hand to her brow in a fatherly
gesture of blessing, but as he does he freezes and a
look of amazement washes over his face.

**You have tal. You have the witch gifts. If it were
any other time I would take you to our temple for
training before your power was turned to evil, but I
do not question my god. If you seek the horn, I will
not hinder you. May Mohandru forgive me if you
are not as good as you seem.”

He rises to his feet and turns to the blond boy,
who is staring at the two with no little awe and
much confusion. ““Would you go with her? Protect
her? Aid her?”

“Just wait a moment,” Scatha bursts out. She is
quite well again and her spirit is returning. “I don’t

Section 17

want some big lug of a stableboy traipsing after
me.”

‘““Well, that’s fine with me. I’m not sure I want to
run off from a good job to protect some girl!”

The priest is paying no attention to the two. He
takes a pouch from his belt and gives it to the boy.

“There is some gold. Blessings rarely buy din-
ner.”

“I don’t need your protection,” Scatha answers
hotly.

“You didn’t look so great when you came falling
in here,” the lad shouts back.

‘I knew there was a reason I came to Chatelgard.
I thought it was to seek Ejord, but it was to find this
girl. Oh, how wise my god! Man must not question
the will of the gods. Even priests forget this.” He
lectures on, half to himself, half to the pair, who are
paying no attention to him at this point. They are
too busy arguing.

“Well, if you have something important to do,
I'm not going to let you go alone,” the lad shouts at
her.

“Tet me! Oh, yeah?” she yells back, pushing
herself up from the bed.

“Oh, yeah! You even talk funny. I bet you aren’t
even from around here. Wherever you’re going, I'll
bet you'd get lost without me,” he adds. By now
they are nose to nose.

“Pm not going to stay around here very long, so I
don’t need your help. And give me that pouch!” she
bellows, grabbing for his hand.

“Children, children. Silence!” The priest is

Section 17

standing in the middle of the small rustic room
looking like a giant white bird flapping his arms
and shaking his head.

He turns to the lad. ““You may do as you will, but
I will feel much safer if the safety of the world lies
with more than one warrior.”

Scatha notes to herself that he did not say one girl
and feels very pleased. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad
to have company.

“All right, he can come. But I’m in charge,” she
adds with nonnegotiable determination. ‘“‘This is
silly. Don’t you work here? How can you come with
me, anyhow?”

“That’s no problem. The innkeeper is my uncle.
He usually sends me home after the snows hit to
save wages until spring. Ill just ask to leave tomor-
row, before the weather gets worse. He won’t care,
and I don’t care, anyhow. I’ve always wanted to go
down the mountain and see the world.”

It is soon settled that they will leave the next day.
Scatha is impressed when the priest buys two
horses for them. The lad, whose name is Harold,
will ask his uncle to provision them, and packs his
few possessions, including his quarterstaff, and his
bow and arrows.

Restore Scatha’s hit points.

Turn to section 18.

Section 18

Miserably Scatha sits huddled on Harold’s bed,
wrapped in a cloak, looking out the unglazed
window. The big wet fluffy snowflakes are blowing
in, and they are no longer melting on the hard dirt
floor. Soon she will either have to shut the shutters
and sit hiding in the dark or poke up the small grate
and risk Uncle Innkeeper noticing and finding his
unpaid guest.

Absentmindedly she reaches for the wooden
bowl on the rough table by the bed, but it has long
been scraped clean of the hot stew Harold smug-
gled to her.

“Brel curse it! We should have been out of here
hours ago,” she bellows, throwing the offending
bowl against the far wall. Harold had suggested that
they wait for a break in the snow, saying that it was
unseasonably early even for the mountains, but it
doesn’t look any better to her now, and she is not
going to wait until spring!

Cold and stiff from the inactivity, and restless,
she gets up, listens at the door, but hears nothing
but the normal stable sounds of horses snorting and
shuffling in their stalls. She bites her lip, takes a
deep breath, pulls back the bolt, and opens the
door, wincing at its loud creak. Letting out her
breath in relief, she quietly pads her way through
the stable and across the cobbled yard to the inn.

Section 19

“Get your gear,” Harold whispers back. “We
have horses packed and tied down the road by the
first bend, past the big oak.”

“Who are you?” the leader bellows as he strides
up, pushing aside the innkeeper.

Scatha bolts to the door. The horsemen are
outside dismounting by the stables.

“Stop! Stop her. Mohandru spy. Stop!” the lead-
er commands as he bounds after her, but she has
slipped by him. Sprinting her way across the court-
yard, Scatha is trying to figure out what the glint of
metal she just saw means.

Gods no! Another throwing knife. Doesn’t he
ever run out?

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, turn to section 19.

If the total is greater than her Dexterity value, turn
to section 20.

* JQ x

The leader’s hand is a blur of motion. Scatha feels
the whoosh of wind slash past her shoulder as she
zigzags her way across the courtyard. The newcom-
ers are scrambling after her. She dodges into the
stable, runs into Harold’s room, and bolts the door.

Section 19

They are right behind her, slamming into the door.
The timbers are bending with each assault. It will
not be long.

She pushes the bed to the window, grabs her
pack, and tries to shove it through. The shield
strapped to it makes it a tight fit. It jams in the
window frame. The first door timber gives way. She
shoves again and the pack is through. Snatching her
sword, Scatha hops to the ledge, slithers through,
and jumps to the ground.

Taking a moment to look back at the small
window, she hopes it isn’t big enough to let any
full-grown men through. Hastily she gathers her
gear and runs around the inn to the woods. She can
hear the pounding of blood in her ears. The curve
in the road is ahead of her. The oak is on the other
side. She doesn’t look; she just dashes across the
road, sliding the last few feet and rolling behind the
oak. The horses are there and so is Harold.

He’s panting. They both fight to quiet their
breathing as they hear the sound of horsemen
gallop past their hiding place and down the road.

Turn to section 27.

Section 21

«x QQ «x

The leader’s hand is a blur of motion. The dagger
flies from his hand seeking Scatha seemingly with
eyes of its own.

Scatha feels the thump, and staggers. Then she
feels the pain.

Roll 1 D6 for damage.

Turn to section 28.

“There, again! I told you,” the man protests as a
puff of wind clears the fog a bit. ““There! There he
is.” Excitedly the man points directly at her.

They think I’m a boy, Scatha realizes. Well, that
solves the problem of my virtue—but not the
problem of living to a ripe old age. No help for it
now. She gets up and steps out onto the road.

“Hello there,” Scatha shouts, making her voice
as deep as possible.

“Who are you?” The men make an unmistakable -
move, even in this fog: They reach for their swords.

Turn to section 10.

Section 22

Scatha feigns a blow to Karl’s leg. He drops his
sword to block it, just as she had hoped. She turns
the blow deftly in the air, and brings her sword up,
severing Karl’s neck in one back-wrenching thud.
Her first kill. Battle-lust makes her blood run hot,
and she waits, cat-patient, for her next attacker.

The leader strides toward her, throwing back his
hood. Painted on his cheek is a dark symbol. Scatha
noticed the same on the late Karl. The leader starts
to draw.

“Lord,” the other man calls to the leader. “Karl
was my cousin. Let me.”

The leader nods and reaches for the reins of his
horse as the other man draws and approaches her.

“If you cannot carve this dog-meat, Jessed,” the
leader shouts at him, mounting his steed, “‘the
Dark One won’t save you in this life or the next.”

Scatha is shaking with a rush of energy. The
practice yard was never like this. Every move, every
blow, must be right. Her life, and the lives of Ejord
and all of Dro Daria depend on it. She sees with a
clarity new to her. She moves with a purpose she
has never before felt. But she knows deep inside her
that her strength is limited. She has not eaten: She
has slept little. She has been frightened and drained
by the psychic tal force she has experienced. But
she pushes away all thought as Jessed rushes toward

Section 23

her. All thought, that is, except the wordless calcu-
lations of his every movement.

He fakes a swing to her head, forcing her to blind
herself behind her shield. He raises his blade to
cleave her in two.

JESSED, A BLACK RIDER
To hit Scatha: 14 | To be hit: 13 Hit points: 7
Damage with sword: I D6

If Scatha is killed, turn to section 29.

If Scatha kills her foe, turn to section 23.

Scatha drops her shield in time to see the descent of
the Black Rider’s blade. Nearing the last of her
resources, she manages to raise her blade to protect
herself. Oh, gods, lost and known, let me block it,
she prays. The sword deflects the mighty blow, but
at a price. Scatha’s wrists are twisted painfully, and
her blade is snapped short. Her enemy rushes at her
again, swinging for her ribs. She steps out of the
way, but slips on a wet patch of grass. Falling to the
ground, her feet kick up as she goes down. Her foot
lands on something soft. It is the back of Jessed’s
knee. He tumbles down on her. She feels a sharp
impact on her injured wrist as she hears the scream.
He has impaled himself on the squared edge of her

Section 24

broken sword. Not a pretty sight. She lets go of the
hilt and kicks her way free, scrambling to her feet.
Karl’s sword is lying not a foot from her feet. She.
snatches it up just as the leader gallops past her, his
sword drawn.

With a mighty crash his blade descends.

(This battle is a one-roll combat; that is, they will
take one swipe at each other and stop fighting. This
is not to the death unless either of them gets lucky
on the first blow.)

LEADER
To hit Scatha: 16 To be hit: 16 Hit points: 16
Damage with sword: 1 D6

If Scatha is killed, turn to section 29.

If she survives, turn to section 24.

* QQ x

Karl’s blade is heavier than her broken blade, but
not too slow or heavy to heft into position with the
incentive of an armed rider bearing down. The
additional mass of the blade absorbs the shock of
the blow, but Scatha feels sharp pains in both her
wrists nonetheless.

She reels back from the blow, managing only a
weak riposte. She spins to face the return charge,

Section 24

but the black rider gallops off down the road
without looking back.

She collapses onto the road, near the bodies of
her two enemies. I should bury them, the exhausted
girl thinks without enthusiasm. Oh, gods, I can’t
take the time. She calculates that it will take her
most of the morning, and she keeps thinking about
the quest. It has become much more real and less a
dream since her encounter with these men. Who
were they? She thinks back, trying to concentrate.

“Oh, Holy Mohandru,” she exclaims aloud,
“they said there were more of them down the
road!”

That cheerful thought spurs her to activity. She
drags the two bodies off the road and covers them
with pine needles and brush. She starts to throw
their packs in with them, but realizes that they
might have things she dearly needs. Feeling a
twinge of guilt at stealing from the dead, she
rummages through their packs, taking the money
pouches and food wallets. Finally she tosses the
packs next to the camouflaged corpses.

“Whoever you prayed to, may they claim you,”
she prays quietly over the bodies. ““And thank you
for the sword!” she adds, shouldering her pack and
starting down the road.

The fog has burned off a little. It is still gray and
- damp, but at least she can make reasonable time as
she goes on.

Turn to section 16.

Section 26

« Qe x

The dragon god rises from the pit, flicking off the
puny humans with a casual ripple of his shimmer-
ing body. Scatha grimly hangs on and drives her
sword tip between two rows of scales. The dragon
arches to see what petty annoyance still troubles
him, bringing his massive golden eye to within
inches of Scatha’s face. The warrior screams at the
god in frustration. Her sword is jammed securely in
the scaly armor and there is no way to free it.

The great beast almost casually draws back his
head and opens his mouth, revealing row upon row
of needle-sharp teeth and a viperous forked tongue.
Then he exhales. Scatha screams in agony as the
wall of flame hits her.

Turn to section 29.

The sword rakes the demon’s soft underbelly, send-
ing a shower of its stinging acid blood over Scatha’s
face. She squeezes her eyes shut against the stuff,
trying to mop it off with her forearm. But she has
blinded herself to the mage demon’s next attack.
She feels a sudden blow to her hand as the creature

Section 27

bats her sword from her grip with its claws. She
forces her burning eyes open, just in time to see the
end. The beast drops from the ceiling, talons out-
stretched, striking her full in the chest and driving
her to the ground.

Turn to section 29.

* DT x

*“Now what, O wise one?” Harold sits with his back
to the giant tree as snowflakes rapidly encrust him
with a crisp layer of white.

““We are going to Asheera.”

“What! Are you nuts? If the desert doesn’t get us
the barbarians will. Oh, fine! I get hooked up to
some crazy girl on a mysterious magical quest and
she wants to get us both killed or enslaved by .. .”

““No, really. We have to.”

“Why?” Now Harold is looking really worried.
He is wondering whatever made him listen to the
priest in the first place.

“Let me show you . . . if I can.” Scatha pulls the
blue pouch from her pack and removes the stone.

“So? It’s a rock.”

“No, wait.”’ Scatha prays desperately that the
stone will do something. Maybe having Harold
along is a good thing, maybe not, but right now
company is cheering. After all, she thinks, after a
lifetime on the Quais barges with my whole family

Section 27

around me, or living in Chatelgard, being alone
takes some getting used to.

Holding the stone up between them, she ad-
dresses it. “Honored Memory Stone, show me—us
—where to go next.”

Nothing happens. Harold begins to lose interest.
Squinting with effort, Scatha stares harder and
harder into the cold black surface. The stone begins
to glow.

“Look at that!’ Harold shouts, leaning closer.

“Shhh!”

The glow gives way to a swirling mist, which
slowly clears. As the two adventurers stare into the
stone a landscape appears, of a thin, scrubby forest
abruptly giving way to an endless expanse of burn-
ing sand. It almost looks as if the desert border was
carved from the land by a giant sword point. Now
the two young people can make out moving figures,
the first a single man running with all his might
toward a rocky shelter. A horse lies dead behind
him. Three horsemen, all in black-hooded cloaks,
ride in pursuit. The figures move like tiny puppets
on some miniature stage, a child’s show on Festival
Day, but in deadly earnest. The silence of the play
makes it all the more chilling.

Scatha discovers that by willing herself closer,
the vision rushes up to her, as if she were a bird
swooping down to see the ground. Now she can
make out the faces of the actors in this terrifying
play. The man who was running is now cornered
near a heap of boulders. It is the wizard Drukor,

re

Section 27

whom she has seen in the stone before. Only this
time he is not looking so triumphant. Drukor
stares, terrified, at the charging horsemen, then the
mad look comes over him. He raises his hand and
flings out blinding balls of fire. Two of the horse-
men fall. Scatha is just as glad she cannot hear the
death screams of the burning men, nor the shrieks
of the dying horses. It is terrible enough to watch
them toss and writhe their lives away.

The remaining rider throws back his head in a
silent shout and charges again at the wizard. With
the agility of an acrobat, Drukor somersaults out of
the way, and then leaps back over the horse,
kicking the rider sharply in the head.

Scatha is fighting back hysteria at these dream-
like antics when she sees that the rider is bleeding
from his mouth and nose. Soberly she watches’ him
slip from the saddle to the ground. There is no
doubt. He is dead. Drukor, his face twisted in a
laugh which the watchers cannot hear, bounds onto
the rider’s mount and gallops away deep into the.
desert.

The vision fades.

“Wow! Can you do that often?” whispers an -
awed Harold.

“Of course I can,” Scatha answers tartly, quickly
recovering her composure as she packs away the
stone. At the same time she profoundly thanks and
“apologizes to the gods who control the stone, who-
ever they are.

She continues, “‘Now you see that we must get to
the border as quickly as possible.”

Section 27

“T still don’t understand. But I do know that
those horsemen from the inn will be back when
they realize they have lost the trail. There is a
shortcut to the lowlands, although I can’t guarantee
that we can make it if the snow continues. It goes
straight over that.”

He points to the magnificent mountain range to
their right. The peaks, many white even at the end
of summer, are lost in the clouds.

“But first you have to tell me why I’m risking my
life for you, Scatha. I don’t really understand all of
this.”

“Fair enough.” She tells him all that has gone on,
and is pleased enough when Harold interrupts now
and then with eyes as big as dinner bowls when he
discovers that she actually lived at Chatelgard, and
studied arms skills, and even knows Lord Ejord.
(“Oh, yes, Uncle Ejord. He is very nice.”’)

At nightfall they make a lean-to from an oiled .
skin and ropes which Harold had the forethought
to pack. They tie the horses in what shelter they can
find and start a small damp fire which sputters
weakly and smokes a lot. But the food tastes
wonderful, and they even boil up water for herb
tea.

“My plan,” Harold explains, “is to use the tem-
ples of the mountain cults for shelter. I don’t know
exactly where they are, but everybody who has
been over the mountain says they are each about a
day’s journey apart. I know that in Lord Ejord’s
father’s time, all could use them without fear if
they did no harm. I’ve also been told they are

Section 27

haunted places, but it’s better than staying out-
doors unprotected. Do you know about the Moun-
tain Men?”

Scatha shudders. ““Mountain beasts is more like
it. Last winter we saw the remains. . .”’ She shakes
her shoulders as if to shake away the memory.
‘“‘Never mind. Yes, I know about the Mountain
Men.”

“With any luck they won’t be too hungry, or too
wild yet. But with this early a winter, who knows?
Been a strange year all around. At least if we reach
the temples at night the Mountain Men won’t
attack us there.’¢-

The next morning they break camp in a driving
snowstorm. By midmorning they are well up a
twisting narrow and slippery road which clings to
the mountain’s edge. Scatha and Harold have dis-
mounted and are leading the horses. Neither talks,
but they use all their strength to steady the snorting
and slipping mounts.

Scatha looks up as an ominous rumbling begins.

“No!” she shouts, throwing her arms over her
head. An avalanche of rock is tumbling down the
slope straight at them.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, turn to section 33.

If the total is higher than her Dexterity value, turn to
section 34.

Section 28

+ 28 *

Scatha feels the slick warmth of her own blood.
Run. Run. Run, she commands herself with each
lung-burning breath. Slowing down will cost her
her life.

The newcomers are scrambling after her. She
dodges into the stable, runs into Harold’s room,
and bolts the door. Her enemies are right behind
her, slamming into the door. The timbers are
bending with each assault. It will not be long.

Wincing in pain, she reaches for the dagger in her
shoulder, but cannot grasp it. Holy Mohandru, she
whimpers, as she struggles for a grip on the hilt.
Got it! she groans, and yanks it out, tearing more
muscle in the process. She uses the knife to cut off a
piece of blanket and manages to stuff it into her
armor to staunch the bleeding. Her cloak and
leather armor have probably saved her life.

Pushing the bed to the window, she clambers up
with her pack and tries to shove it through. But the
shield strapped to it makes it a tight fit and it jams.
The first door timber gives way. Panicked, she
shoves again, and the pack is through. Finally she
grabs her sword, hops to the ledge, slithers through
and jumps to the ground.

Looking back at the small window, she hopes it
isn’t big enough to let any full-grown men through. -
Shaking with pain, the wounded woman gathers
her gear and runs around the inn to the woods. The

Section 29

pounding of her blood in her ears drowns out
sound and thought. The curve in the road is ahead
of her. The oak is on the other side. She does not
look; she just dashes blindly across the road, sliding
the last few feet and rolling behind the oak. The
horses are there and so is Harold.

He is panting. They both fight to quiet their
breathing as they hear the sound of horsemen
gallop past their hiding place and down the road.

Turn to section 27.

x BQ x

Scatha stares into a red void. The pain is gone, her
body numb. Shadowy pictures dance before her .
eyes, but she cannot even think what they mean. A
young man, with hair like ripe corn, a crow, a great
warrior woman, Ejord, yes, she knows that face,
folks from the Quais, those she has loved. Now she
sees other shadows, horrible ones, a wizard loom-
ing over her, hawklike, turning into a winged
demon, now another powerful sorcerer, mad, rag-
ing. Black gods, scaled, furred. It is a confusing
nightmare.

““Oh, gods, forgive me. I tried.” She sinks into the
peace of death, knowing that the fate of her world
is doom.

This quest has ended in failure. You may attempt the
quest again, hopefully with a happier outcome.

Section 30

You may wish to increase her skill level (which will
also increase her hit points). To start again, turn to
section 1. Good luck!

The rest of the party is jogging quickly, playing a
no-win game of catch tag with their leader, who has
ridden ahead. Scatha decides she likes this snake
even less than the leader. Trying not to show her
increasing fear, the lanky girl saunters along the
road, edging closer and closer to the woods. But she
never Stops watching Snake out of the corner of her
eye, hoping he will lose interest. No help for it. He
hasn’t taken his eyes off her. Well, here goes! she
thinks, and ducks around a tree and bounds down
the embankment into the woods.

The stones and dirt fly under her as she speeds
down toward a stream in a ravine below. Suddenly
she feels her feet tackled out from under her, and
sees the ground rushing toward her face. Gasping
for air after the impact, the young fighter kicks her
way loose and rolls over to face the scrawny man.

Subtract one hit point of damage from Scatha’s
total.

Turn to section 32.

Section 32

The lanky girl saunters along, trying to be as
nonchalant as possible, but she is edging toward the
opposite side of the road. As she passes the skinny
man, he moves to her, cutting her off.

“Well, lad,” he says in an oily voice, “been on
your own long?” He puts an arm around her
shoulders. Now really terrified, Scatha shakes him
off, breaking into a run and jumping down the
embankment. But the snake-eyed man is on her like
glue. Suddenly she feels her feet tackled out from
under her. The air slams out of her lungs as she hits
the ground, loose rocks biting painfully into her.
The young fighter kicks her way loose and rolls over
to face the scrawny man.

Turn to section 32.

The first thing she sees is the knife in Snake’s hand.
The second is a hungry leer on his face.

~~ “What a pretty find, /ad.” The last is so sarcastic

she knows her bluffs been called. “I haven’t had a

woman for weeks. This will feel so good,” he

croons as he lunges at her.

Section 32

For a split second Scatha is paralyzed with fear.
Then the anger rises in her like a living thing. She is
a warrior. She is Pasca’s kin, Jenny’s foster-
daughter, but most of all a woman formed in the
mold of Rifkind herself. No dirty brigand is going
to have his way with her! She blocks his knife thrust
with her arm, powers a punch to his ribs, coming
up with her knee to his jaw as he doubles over.

Backing out of range, Scatha drops her backpack
and draws her sword. Snake shows no signs of
running, but charges at her, shouting obscenities.
She waits for his charge, stepping aside as he stabs
at her. Her sword is poised in position over her
head. She strikes down, the blade twisting in her
hands slightly, sending a shot of pain up her arms.
The blow is not clean, but effective enough. It bites
deep into his neck. He twists loose and stabs at her
again, driving the knife into her ribs, but her armor
absorbs the force and, although bleeding, she is still
very much alive.

Scatha swings at him again, and this time the
blow is clean, the blade humming as it slices the air,
thumping into the man’s body. He falls dead.

Scatha can hear one of Snake’s companions call
out from the road. Then she hears the leader’s
voice. The men move on. She goes down to the
stream and washes her face in the cold water.
Noticing the blood running along her sword, she
wipes the blade clean and sheathes it. She shudders
as she thinks of the dead man, but is not sorry she
removed him from the world. She wonders how

Section 33

many more like him she will have to face before
this quest is over.

Still shaking from her first real battle, Scatha
listens for sounds of the other men coming after
her, even though she knows they won’t. I’ve got to
unwind. I’ve got to relax. She thinks of what she
was taught by her old arms-master. He said to eat,
if you can, and drink something. It takes the edge
off the battle-rush. She drinks from the stream,
then finds and eats a few late-summer berries, but
she can hardly choke down the food.

The wound aches but is tolerable. Going out of
her way to avoid the brigand’s body, Scatha climbs
back to the road and continues on toward the inn.

Roll 1 D6 and subtract this number from Scatha’s
hit points.

Turn to section 17.

* 33 *

““Move!”” Harold bellows, but Scatha is already
dragging the terrified animal up the path with a
Strength she never knew she possessed. They slam
themselves against the rock wall as the curtain of
stones and ice spills down past them. The noise is
deafening, nature’s show of strength stupefying.
Finally it is over. They stand, slowly stretching

Section 34

cramped muscles, paralyzed for a moment as the
knowledge of how close their deaths were sinks in.

Turn to section 35.

*« 34 x

““Move!”” Harold bellows, but Scatha is already
dragging the terrified animal up the path with a
strength she never knew she possessed. But the
horse swings its head in a frenzy, sending the
straining girl skidding on the slushy snow toward
the edge of the mountain path. Frantically Scatha
clutches at the reins, trying to steady herself, but
the horse has lost its footing. Harold stares in
horror, unable to reach them. Scatha is the first to
roll off the edge, her bleeding fingers finding no
hold on smooth rocks. The reins are still twisted
around her wrist as the horse slides past her and
down the mountain. Girl and beast are lost in a
shower of stones and ice as the leading edge of the
avalanche crashes over them.

Roll 2 D6. Subtract this number from Scatha’s hit
points as damage she received from the avalanche.

If Scatha dies, turn to section 29.

If she is still alive, turn to section 36.

Section 35

Soon they forget the terror of the avalanche in the
harsh reality of the driving snow and bitter wind.

“Look, there. What is that?” Scatha shouts.

“What? I can’t hear you.” The howling wind
blows away their words.

“There! Again! Harold, I see something mov-
ing.”’ She huddles close to him, shouting in his ear,
and points down the mountain behind them. “It’s
Mountain Men. I’m sure of it.”

“TI see something, too. Look ahead,” he shouts
back, “that big black blob. It must be the first
temple.”

If they decide to run for the temple, turn to section
wee

If they decide to fight, turn to section 38.

Section 36

x 36 *

The horse has managed to scramble to a firm
foothold and is hanging on, despite the rocks which
rumble past. But Scatha has been jerked to an
unceremonious and sudden stop. She lies helpless
as she is stoned by the mountain. She wonders what
sin she could have committed to deserve such
punishment. Rocks rain down on her head, her
neck, her whole body, bruising her terribly. She
knows she can’t give up, and so slips into a twilight |
of unremitting pain, where the pause between rock
hits is as long as a lifetime and as short as the blink
of an eye. Finally it stops. Harold climbs down to
reach her. He lifts her head tenderly under his arm.

“Are you all right?”

Scatha is dazed. She moves her legs experimen-
tally. Thank all the gods, they move. But she feels a
sharp pain in her knee, and another in her shoul-
der.

“I think so,” she lies bravely.

“'m going to try to move you. Tell me if any-
thing hurts.”

Scatha laughs until the tears stream from her
eyes, even though each breath brings new worlds of
pain. “Everything hurts, Harold.”

He pulls her to her feet. She leans heavily on him.

‘““We’ll have to go back, Scatha.”

“We can’t, Harold. At least I can’t. You know —
that.”

Section 37 .

He sighs wearily and helps her back up to the
road. Then he hauls the horse up. The animal is
limping slightly. Harold knows he will have to drag
the injured creature along. To leave the beast is to
condemn it to sure death.

They, too, have come close to death, but have
survived, wounded but alive. It is time to move on.

Turn to section 35.

« 37 *

Scatha turns back down the road. She squints,
blinking the tears from her streaming eyes, trying
to see the dark forms. I know I saw them. Where
are they? She mops at her eyes. At least she is not
facing the driving snow which has been holding
them back from finding sanctuary.

There they are again. Three, at least. Can the
travelers drive the horses up the mountain fast
enough? Can they face a fight in their condition and
on this tightrope called a road?

“Harold, unpack the horses. Quickly, bury the
spare gear in the snow. Here,” she orders, thrusting
a saddlebag into his hands, “carry that one. I’ve got
this one. Now run!”

“Run” is something of an overstatement as they
fight their way inch by inch up the slope. The
howling wind deafens them to what is happening
behind them.

After a short eternity they reach a wide level

Section 38

space. The black blob ahead of them defines itself
into a domed stone building within an encircling
stone wall. There is no gate, only a gap in the wall,
but Scatha feels safer as soon as they are inside.
Even the wind seems less fierce as they quickly
make their way across the small courtyard and pull
open the door of the temple, frantically scraping
away the snowdrift which blocks it.

Turn to section 39.

*« 3S x

Scatha turns back down the road. She squints,
blinking the tears from her streaming eyes, trying
to see the dark forms. I know I saw them. Where
are they? She mops at her eyes. At least she is not
facing the driving snow which has been holding
them back from finding sanctuary.

There they are again. Three, at least. Can the
travelers drive the horses up the mountain fast
enough? Can they face a fight in their condition and
on this tightrope called a road?

The young warrior reads the situation, calling
forth everything she learned from her arms-master
at Chatelgard, and in the practice mélées. This is no
war game. This is real. She hears her arms-master’s
voice growling in her head, “You use what you’ve
got.” We’ve got the horses. They will provide some
cover. Is it enough to get to the temple? she

Section 38

considers. She shoots a glance back up the moun-
tain. A blast of wind blinds her. No! It is stand and
fight or run and die, she decides.

“Wait here,” she shouts at Harold over the
wailing wind. “Let them come to us. When they hit,
don’t try to hold ground. Back up toward the
temple. Any chance they have a flanking party
behind us?”

“Probably not,” he shouts back, “they are not
too bright. But they are mean.”

The first of them shambles into view. He’s swing-
ing a club. Harold pulls his quarterstaff free from
his pack. In his haste the saddlebags fall free and
hit the ground. Scatha draws her sword.

The road is too narrow for more than one-on-one
combat.

“This one is mine,” Scatha shouts. She ducks the
Mountain Man’s first swing and sweeps her blade
up to her opponent’s armpit.

Mountain Men (and women, for that matter) are
simply dumb. But they are strong, and fearless (fear
takes imagination). They have a low chance of
hitting RN: especially what they aim at, but hit
hard.

MOUNTAIN MEN

To hit hero: 16 To be hit: 10 Hit points: 10
Damage with the Mountain Man’s club: hand:
2 D6

Damage to Mountain Man by Scatha’s sword:
2 D6

Section 39
If Scatha dies, turn to section 29.

If she kills the Mountain Man, turn to section 44.

Scatha falls to the ground, her limbs quivering with
exhaustion. The weary girl hears Harold collapse
next to her, but rolling over to face him takes too
much effort. She lies there until her hands and feet
warm up enough to feel the throbbing of frost
damage.

Squeezing her eyes shut and pretending not to
hear doesn’t hide the scuffling outside, and a horrid
sound: half whinny, half shriek.

Harold, pointedly ignoring the sounds outside,
drags himself up and starts to strip off his soaked
boots and clothes.

‘Off with your boots!” he commands. “I'll start a
fire. We have to get dried out and warmed up before
frostbite can do any real damage.”

Scatha slowly struggles to follow his orders. She
_ knows he is right. But she can’t stop thinking about
the horses.

Harold puts his arms around her.

“Don’t think about it, Scatha. I was already
cutting their tack loose before you told me to. We
didn’t have much choice. And maybe they got
away. It was their only chance. And ours.”

Scatha reaches out and hugs Harold back. “I

_ Section 40

know you're right, but it’s just awful. It’s all just
awful.”
“Shall I help you with your boots?” he asks shyly.
““No, thank you,” she answers, but adds as a hurt
look that can’t be hidden spreads across Harold’s
face, “it’s all right. Pll be fine. Really.”” She man-
ages a reassuring smile.

Turn to section 40.

Harold goes off to strike a fire in the hearth. There
is a neat pile of wood, and the fire has already been
laid, in accordance with the unwritten rules which
govern the use of these places. They, too, will leave
the temple cleaner than they found it, although
travelers are only expected to replace the wood and
food stores if they are able.

Scatha lays out her wet gear by the fire and drags
the two salvaged saddlebags to the hearth.

‘**Well, we have dry socks, and oh, thank the gods,
my pouch. From now on I wear it.”’ She starts to
tuck the blue pouch into her shirt.

“If your magic rock is in there, you should keep it
nearby. Can we look at it? Maybe it will tell us how
we can get out of here alive. I doubt those Moun-
tain Men will be content with horse steaks for very
long.”

“They eat people?”

Section 40

“‘That’s what the stories say, and I believe it. The
mountain does it to them. The cult priests who
worship at these temples don’t seem to be affected.
But travelers who get lost up here but don’t die
become like them. They must join the bands of
Mountain Men after they become like the rest of
them. A cousin of mine disappeared three winters
ago. I hate to say it, but I always hoped he died
instead of becoming one of the them. I guess you
haven’t been at Chatelgard very long. The
Overnmont family has cleared out nests of Moun-
tain Men for years.”

“I only came to Chatelgard a year ago. I am of
the Quais people. After Lady Rifkind waged the
war which restored our land, I followed Lady Jenny
home with her husband. He is a Quais, too. I want
to be like Rifkind. I want to be a warrior.”

“Why? Don’t you want to get married and have
children?” ;

““And get beaten by my husband, and grow old
before my time tilling the land and birthing brats?
No.”

“Not all marriages are like that.” Harold is
thoughtful for a moment as he considers her. She
was awfully satisfying as a companion in arms—
even if she was a girl. “I don’t see why you would
have to give up being a warrior. My father fought in
Ejord’s army and he didn’t give up being my father.
Or running a farm. And he never, ever would even
think of hitting my mother. For one, he loves her.
For another, she’d break his head for him if he
tried.”

Section 40

““Well, maybe.” Scatha doesn’t feel very comfort-
able talking about this. She pulls out the stone,
mostly to change the conversation.

She holds it out on her palm, its glassy black
surface glistening in the flickering hearth light. But
nothing happens. She shrugs and puts the stone
away, feeling disappointed. She hopes Harold
won’t say anything about her failure.

They settle in for the night, making up a small
hot meal out of their now-meager supplies, rounded
out with some stores from the temple. Scatha
settles back on her damp but warm cloak and looks
around. The stone altar stands by one wall, half
hidden in shadow. Above it is carved the face of the
god of this place. Scatha stares, fascinated, at it, but
can only make out the hawklike profile, and the
eyes which look more and more alive the more she
stares. She forces herself to turn away.

Scatha and Harold chat for a while, but are both
too tired for much planning. Soon they stretch out
on bed rolls and fall asleep.

Scatha is standing in a warm swirling cloud. Two
red spots glow before her, imparting a pink glow to
the mist, drawing her closer and closer. She has no
will; she feels no movement. She simply drifts
closer to the eyes. Now she can see the face around
those eyes, the stone face above the altar, but no
longer stone. It comes loose from the wall and
floats down to her. No, now it is not a face, but a
man. Only not a man. The hawklike face is clearly
not that of a bird but a lizard. The body is sinuous,
beautiful. It shimmers green, blue, black, violet.

Section 40

His arms are long and end in clawed hands. His legs
are muscular but graceful, and as he walks toward
her she can See that he balances himself with a tail
which grants him an arrogant yet elegant supple-
ness. He is wonderful and terrible at the same time.
Scatha can feel him talking to her in her mind.

Who are you, child? You seem familiar and yet
not familiar. Do I know you?

I am Scatha, of the Quais. Scatha feels a chill of
fear. Can she tell this god of her quest? Can she
keep it from him? Who are you? she asks timidly.

Who am I? He looks almost puzzled and he
glances around with unnerving reptilian jerks.
Then a smile creeps to his mouth. Now I remember.
I am so old, it is all as one to me. Iam Hanju. You
call me a Lost God. I am the last of my kind. The
mountain is mine. If I will it, you are mine. Ah, yes.
The other. Her name is Rifkind. She will return to
me, perhaps. You are like her. But too young. You
are still too young for me. Perhaps you will return to
me. What would you receive from me? I would gift
you.

Scatha’s mind reels. What to ask for? She starts
to pray for guidance and then laughs at herself.
Who shall she pray to in the presence of the last of
the Lost Gods? She sighs and begins.

Great Lord, I seek the return of the Lost Horn of
the War-Horse of Heaven. An evil man would de-
stroy the world, when the heavens burn in a certain
way, and the time is short. We, my friend and I, are
but mortals, and not very wise ones. Will you help us
in the quest?

Hanju stands silent for a while. Scatha is ready to

Section 40

cry. What if he is evil and will destroy her? What if
he is displeased with her? She hasn’t had much
experience bargaining with gods. But he nods and
speaks.

I cannot leave my mountain and live. But you are
what your people would call good. I am pleased.
Perhaps this will help. Put out your hand.

Scatha does as she is bid, and three shimmering
pearls appear on her palm.

The god and the mist swirl away. As they go she
hears, faintly, Return to me, Scatha. Return to me.
It is not a command by a powerful god, but a plea.
Scatha is touched by the loneliness in his cry.
Perhaps she will return to him when her quest is
over.

Scatha awakens, and looks up at the stone face,
now no more than a carved figure dimly illumi-
nated by the thin, watery morning light streaming
in from the few narrow windows.

“Harold, are you awake?”

“Mmmmm.” .

“Il had a dream. Oh, gods! It wasn’t a dream.
Look!” In her clutched fist are three pearls.

While they break their fast, she tells Harold of
her experience with Hanyu.

“Fine. Did he tell you how to use them?”

“No.” =

**There are only three. We can’t afford to waste
one trying to find out. I guess we just guess when
the time comes, whenever that is.”

Harold’s dispassionate attitude toward her meet-
ing, talking to one of the greatest mysteries of her

Section 40

world, infuriates her. ““Maybe we don’t know how
to use them, but we have them,” Scatha shouts
hotly. “I don’t see you getting any help from
anybody.”

“Oh, yeah. And where would you have been in
the storm alone?”

Scatha says no more, but she is angry at this
unwanted companion. And she has no interest in
getting married to anybody, ever, and what busi-
ness was it of his?

The storm has become more gentle, but has not
stopped. Fine powdered snow drifts to the ground,
tirelessly building drifts which will become more
dangerous than the wind if they do not move on
soon. They pack, replace the wood in the fireplace,
and tidy the sanctified shelter.

As they leave Scatha turns back at the door,
looks up at the stone face and bows deeply, pray-
ing quietly. Thank you, Hanju. Perhaps I will re-
turn.

You may use the Gift of Hanju anytime you are
offered the option. You will find out what they do if
and when you choose to use them. Just remember
that Hanju is a very old god and hasn’t had much
business with humans for thousands of years. He is a
little bored and a little whimsical. On the other
hand, he seems to like Scatha. But his memory isn't
too good, and you never know with gods.

Good luck!

Turn to section 42.

Section 41

As the tail arches over to sting her she grabs for it,
hanging on by little more than her fingernails to the
horny plates which armor the beast. The tail flicks
back up, Scatha’s body flying and snapping like a
pennant in the breeze, but she bravely hangs on.
The beast flicks its tail again, and again Scatha is
danced up and down like a puppet. Her grip is
slipping, and she knows she must do something or
she will again be helpless in the sand. As the tail
arches low over the creature’s back she lets go and
drops down. Lying flat and using the plates on its
carapace for handholds, she crawls up toward its
head. Straddling its neck and gripping tight with
her legs, she grasps the sword firmly with both
hands, points it down like a huge dagger, and drives
the point through the scorpion’s eye and into its
brain. She is flung away by its death convulsions,
but she feels the stinger graze her leg as she tumbles
to the sand.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is less than or equal to Scatha’s Constitu-
tion value, turn to section 15.

If the total is greater than her Constitution value,
turn to section 12.

Section 42

Scatha and Harold don’t talk much most of the
morning, partly because of the cold and the snow,
but mostly because Scatha doesn’t want to encour-
age Harold to be protective and coddle her. The
strong-willed girl fought long and hard to earn
some respect from her swordmates at Chatelgard.
She knows she’s going to have to do it all again with
Harold. Boys are so stubborn about some things!
Not that she doesn’t like him. In fact, if he could —
keep from treating her like a kid sister, she’d like
him a lot....

Her daydreaming is swept away. Something is
watching them. She drops back to walk next to
Harold.

“Do you see something, or feel something
strange?” she asks uneasily.

“Yes, the last few minutes I thought I heard
something crunching in the snow. It’s stopped
. now.”

“I feel watched,” she insists.

“Yeah, that’s it. Me, too. Just keep walking.”

Scatha nods in agreement, but shudders at the
thought of another attack so soon.

They keep plodding down the road. The next
temple should be about a day’s journey from the
last, but they are on foot now, and going even more
slowly because of the snow. There is a good chance

Section 42

that even if they don’t encounter any more bands of
Mountain Men, they will have to camp in the snow.

“Look, there!” Harold points to a shadow which
scuttles across the road some yards ahead of them.

Scatha sees it as it disappears into the snow. “‘Oh,
Great Mohandru. Here we go again.”

But the attack does not come and they warily
continue along the twisting snow-covered moun-
tain road as the morning passes into afternoon, and
the afternoon into dusk.

“No help for it. We'll have to camp,” Harold
says.

““No. We press on as long as we can.”

He shrugs but does not argue. Soon it is too dark
to see the road.

““Scatha, this is stupid,” Harold finally bursts out
in exasperation. “I know you’re as tough as I am,
but we’re both going to get killed walking off the
edge of this mountain if we go on.”

“Can we light a torch?”

“With what!”

“Branches. There are bushes in the snow all
along the road.”

“I'd be game to try to light a campfire with that
stuff, but a torch will either be too wet to burn at
all, or it will be too twiggy to stay lit long. Please,
Scatha, maybe you can keep going but I’m ready to
fall asleep on my feet.”

She sighs, and shrugs, resigning herself to the fact
that he is right about this.

Harold senses that she wants to give in, and
presses his advantage. ““We passed a wide place in

Section 42

the road with some shelter about fifty yards back.
Let’s go back there. We might even get a fire
started. I’d feel safer against attack with a fire. They
say those creatures are as afraid of fire as any
mountain bear.”

Scatha agrees and they return to the place. It is
better than they could have hoped. They find a
shallow cave.

Scatha quickly starts a smokey fire.

“That’s really amazing, Scatha. I can’t get wet
wood going that fast.”

“There are tricks to it. Remember, my people
lived in bogs. I’ve had a lot of experience lighting
fires on rafts floating in swamps, even in the rain,”
she explains, surprised at how pleased she is by
Harold’s praise.

They make a minimal camp, one they can break
quickly. But they do take time to pile up the
drifting snow to increase their shelter, and hold in
what little warmth the brush fire gives off.

“ll take the first shift,” Scatha offers, stifling a
yawn.

Harold does not argue and is asleep in minutes.
All is quiet in the nighttime forest, and Scatha
listens to its peaceful sounds. She’s lulled by the
interplay of the fire against bare tree branches,
casting playful shadows across the snow. Harold
looks almost handsome in this light, she thinks,
playing a game of “what if...” with herself. Sud-
denly the shadows turn into real shapes.

“Harold!” Scatha screams, jumping clumsily to
her feet. He scrambles up, his bow already in his
hand. He thanks his favorite deity that he salvaged

Section 43

it from the gear scattered outside the first temple,
although the stomping of the terrified horse left
him but a scant dozen unbroken arrows. But his
quarterstaff is gone and much missed.

Scatha’s sword is in her hand as she dodges the
blow of the first of the man-beasts to reach her, and
swings down at his exposed neck. He crashes to the
ground. But there are more, many more, darting
into the firelight. Harold draws his bow, nocks an
arrow, and fires. His target clutches his chest,
screaming inhuman cries, and falls. Harold
snatches up a firebrand and threatens off two more.
But there are more and more screaming and crowd-
ing into the circle of light. One swings a sword at
Scatha’s exposed back.

“Behind you!” Harold bellows.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, turn to section 51.

If the total is greater than her Dexterity value, turn
to section 48.

« 4B *
Scatha is sprinting for all she is worth, but the
damn sand grabs at her like hands, and she isn’t

gaining any distance.
I didn’t come all this way to be killed from

Section 44

behind, she decides desperately, and she turns to
meet the thing. It arches over her, blotting out the
sky, its dozens of spiny arms weaving and reaching
for her, snapping its claws with sharp little clicks.
The mandible doesn’t click at her. It grinds!

She swings and jabs, but the damn thing is not
only larger than a house, it is in its element, and she
is not in hers. It crashes down to crush her, but she
rolls out of the way. She can see the silhouette of its
tail with its deadly stinger arch over to reach for
her. She scrambles to her feet, dodging and strik-
ing, all at the same time.

GIANT SCORPION

To hit Scatha: 12 To be hit: 10 Hit points: 10
Damage with claws: I D6
Damage with mandibles: 1 D6
Damage with stinger: 2 D6 =
The Scorpion attacks once each type per round.

If Scatha is killed by the scorpion, turn to section 50.

If Scatha kills the scorpion, turn to section 41.

* G@ x

The next hulking half-human charges at them,
screaming a bone-shattering wail. In the split sec-
ond as he comes in, Scatha coolly assesses possible
strategies: Can I block this bullock? Or do I duck?

Section 44

Is there room to duck? But her body is already in
motion, and she slams against the mountainside to
avoid the hulk. She involuntarily winces at the
whoosh as Harold’s quarterstaff flashes past her and
bats the monster off the edge.

Boy, am I dumb, she thinks as the next one
charges her. A plan is clear to her as she shouts to
Harold, “‘Use the staff like a pike, behind me. No,
stay behind. Pll provide the shield wall.”

“All one of you?” he shouts back.

“Trust me.”

She manages to grab the reins of one of the
milling horses, and drags him in front of her as the
next creature hits. The horse takes the impact of
the charge and panics. He snorts and rears up,
dragging Scatha, still holding the reins, with him.

Harold has caught on to the plan and is smartly
stabbing at the wild man with the end of his
quarterstaff. The creature falls back with each
thrust, only to throw himself against the staff again
and again. Even without the horse or Scatha as
cover, he is holding his own.

But Scatha is in trouble. The horse is slipping,
and Scatha with him.

Roll 3 Do.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, turn to section 45.

If the total is greater than her Dexterity value, turn
to section 46.

Section 46

* 4S *

Scatha feels the pack horse lose his footing. She
drops the reins, but as the rearing, sliding, whinny-
ing animal flings his head in terror, he strikes her,
sending her sprawling toward the edge. She grabs
for something, anything. Her hands close on the
saddlebags on the horse’s flank as the poor beast
slides over the edge. The bags come off in her
hands. By now she is only holding on by a handful
of brittle, dead weeds which have been exposed by
the passage of the sliding animal. Somehow she
manages to throw the saddlebags back up to the
road and dig the fingers of her now-free hand into
the frozen soil. It holds, and she starts to scrabble
her way back up to the road.

Turn to section 49.

* G@@® «

Scatha feels the pack beast lose his footing. She
drops the reins, but as the rearing, sliding, whinny-
ing animal flings his head in terror, he strikes her,
sending her sprawling toward the edge. She grabs
for something, anything. Her hands close on the

Section 46

saddlebags on the horse’s flank as the poor beast
slides over the edge. The bags come off in her
hands. Clutching the bags mindlessly, the scared
girl reaches for the edge as it slides past her, using
her right hand-and dropping her sword. Scrabbling
for a handhold every inch of the way, she slides
painfully down the steep slope, gaining momen-
tum. Oh, please, Mohandru, Brel, anybody, help
me, she prays with every missed branch and boul-
der.

Suddenly she stops hard against a rocky outcrop-
ping. She leans her head back against the cold rock
wall, and breathes deeply. I hate mountains, I hate
towers, I hate high places, she groans to herself. But
this is not the land of the Quais, and she forces
herself to face the climb back up the hill, where, by
the sound of it, Harold is still fighting hordes of
wild men.

But when she looks down at her feet wedged into
a crevice in the rock, it is all she can do to keep
from screaming. All she can see is mist and sky.
Nothing more. Below her lies a sheer wall.

She aches all over. She is still holding the saddle-
bags. Good sense tells her to drop them. But, damn
it all to Brel’s Hell, she lost her horse. She is not
going to lose everything else, even if it means her
own life. With the spunky determination which is
so characteristic of her, she declares, They called
me stubborn at home. Well, they never saw stub-
born. Slowly, inch by inch, she starts crawling up
the steep slope, back up to the road and the fight,

Section 47

the bags hung over her shoulder, her fingers pain-
fully digging into the frozen slope for purchase.

Turn to section 49.

I’m not going to fight that thing! she thinks as she
scrambles back. The scorpion swings its head,
looking for breakfast. All the little voices in
Scatha’s mind are screaming for attention, and
none of them is saying the same thing. Run! Don’t
move! Her will is voting for run, her good sense for
don’t move. She freezes, thinking very small and
unappetizing thoughts. It doesn’t help. The thing is
quite nearsighted, but it can smell a bug at a
hundred yards. It lurches at the hapless girl.
Oh, hell! She breaks into a run.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, turn to section 75.

If the total is more than her Dexterity value, turn to
section 43.

Section 49

*« 4S x

Harold shouts, but too late. Scatha is struck and
flung off her feet.

’ Roll 1 D6 for Scatha’s damage.
If she dies, turn to section 29.

If she survives, turn to section 52.

She drags herself onto the road edge. Harold is
down but struggling to hold off the huge wild man
straddling his body. The wild man rips Harold’s
staff from his hands and breaks it like a twig.
Scatha knows the sword is somewhere. She feels
along the ground, warily watching the fight. There’s
something. Damn! It isn’t the sword. It’s the sad-
dlebag. The Mountain Man is about to bash in
Harold’s head.

Shouting a war cry, Scatha swings the bag at the
man-beast. He turns, climbs off Harold, and rushes
at her. Harold grabs up the other saddlebags, which
are still lying in the road. He bats the wild man

Section 49

from behind, sending him spinning toward this
new attacker, forgetting Scatha. She hits him again,
and again he turns, and again Harold strikes at
him, driving the wild man rushing back and forth
between them. The Mountain Man is red with rage.
He rushes Harold in earnest. Scatha finally sees her
sword and dives for it. Then she runs, with all the
strength she has left, into the howling snow and
wind, and drives the blade into the last of this party
of Mountain Men.

But even now they see dark shadows darting
from one rock to another as more of these untiring
beasts prowl] the blizzard for food.

Scatha and Harold back up the road toward the
looming temple. As if at a signal they both turn and
break into a run for the sanctuary. The domed
stone building lies within a circular courtyard sur-
rounded by a low stone wall. They bolt through the
gap in the wall, across the snowy courtyard, and
pull the door of the temple open, kicking away the
drifts of snow which block it shut. They slam the
door behind them and collapse on the floor.

Scatha falls to the ground, her limbs quivering
with exhaustion. The weary girl hears Harold col-
lapse next to her, but rolling over to face him takes
too much effort. She lies there until her hands and
feet warm up enough to feel the throbbing of frost
damage.

Squeezing her eyes shut and pretending not to
hear doesn’t hide the scuffling outside, and a horrid
sound: half whinny, half shriek.

Section 50

Harold, pointedly ignoring the sounds outside,
drags himself up and starts to strip off his soaked
boots and clothes.

“Off with your boots!” he commands. “Ill start a
fire. We have to get dried out and warmed up before
frostbite can do any real damage.”

Scatha slowly struggles to follow his orders. She
knows he is right. But she can’t stop thinking about
the horses.

Harold puts his arms,around her.

“Don’t think about it, Scatha. There was nothing
more we could have done to save them.”

Scatha reaches out and hugs Harold back. “I
know your're right, but it’s just awful. It’s all just
awful.”

“Shall I help you with your boots?” he asks shyly.

““No, thank you,” she answers, but adds as a hurt
look that can’t be hidden spreads across Harold’s
face, “it’s all right. Pll be fine. Really.” She man-
ages a reassuring smile.

Turn to section 40.

* 50 «

It’s not the pain. It’s the frustration that hurts.
Scatha’s blows are getting weaker and sloppier, not
just from the terrible injuries, but from knowing
that it is all over. The creature’s chitinous mandi-

Section 51

bles close around her, crushing her. She can hear
her spine snap, and where she felt her legs is now
only a horrible burning. She never feels the stinger
send the venom into her body, but she can feel the
paralysis in her throat and chest, and she cannot
breathe.

Turn to section 29.

Scatha lunges out of the path of the club. She turns
and swings at her foe.

Mountain Men (and women, for that matter) are as —
dumb as shovels. But they are strong, and fearless
(fear takes imagination). They have a low chance of
hitting anything, especially what they aim for, but a
clean hit is a hard hit.

MOUNTAIN MAN

To hit hero: 16 To be hit: 10 Hit points: 10
Damage with club: 2 D6

Scatha does 2 D6 damage with her sword, and
swings first.

If Scatha dies, turn to section 29.

If Scatha kills the brute, turn to section 53.

Section 52

Scatha is stunned but alive. The blow was hard, but
the clumsy delivery turned the blade as it struck.
She rolls painfully out from under the angry crea-
ture’s second attempt to kill her. She scrambles to
her feet and swings at him.

Mountain Men (and women, for that matter) are as
dumb as shovels. But they are strong, and fearless
(fear takes imagination). They have a low chance of
hitting anything, especially what they aim for, but a
clean hit is a hard hit.

MOUNTAIN MAN

To hit hero: 16 To be hit: 10 Hit points: 10
Damage by the Mountain Man: 2 D6

Scatha does 2 D6 damage with her sword, and
swings first.

If Scatha dies, turn to section 29.

If she kills the beast, turn to section 53.

Section 54

*t 53 *

Scatha manages to kill the first of the Mountain
Men, but she is confronted with several:more. She
must decide whether to use one of Hanju’s pearls or
rely on her own skills as a warrior.

If she decides to use one of Hanju’s pearls, turn to
section 60.

If she decides to rely on her own skills as a warrior,
turn to section 54.

x 5@ x

Three more Mountain Men shamble toward her.
Scatha risks a quick glance toward Harold. He is
holding his own, but won’t be much help in holding
off this newest bunch. She backs herself into a
crevice. She should be able to climb out of range if
she has to, but at least she only has to face one of
these creatures at a time from here. Oh, Lost Gods,
she thinks, at the last minute, what if they have
long weapons, spears, or pikes. I'll be a sitting
goose! The young veteran is beginning to learn the
subtleties of tactics. But the time for lessons is over,
and luck is with her. The first of the creatures
strikes at her with a Brel-be-damned heavy mace.

Section 56
MOUNTAIN MEN
To hit hero: 14 To be hit: 10 Hit points: 7 each

Damage with heavy mace: 2 D6
Scatha does 2 D6 damage with her sword.

Roll for three Mountain Men foes, one afier the
other.

If Scatha dies, turn to section 29.

If Scatha kills this batch of three, turn to section 55.

x §5 «

Scatha manages to kill all three of the Mountain
Men, but over the pile of bodies she can see many
more ready to charge her. Again she considers
whether to use one of Hanju’s pearls or not.

If she decides to use a pearl, turn to section 60.

If she decides to continue fighting, turn to section S56.

« 56 *

The pile of bodies in front of Scatha both provide
some vague cover and cause her to feel trapped in
the crevice. With each new opponent, the terrible
strain and fear yield to the savage joy of battle

adness, but then are replaced by greater anxieties.
Now more of these creatures crowd in to attack her.
The warrior sets her jaw, tenses in readiness, and
the battle begins again.

MOUNTAIN MEN

To hit hero: 15 To be hit: 10 Hit points: 7
Damage with whatever the Mountain Man has in
hand: 1 D6

Scatha does 2 D6 damage with her sword.

Roll for three more opponents, one after the other.
If Scatha dies, turn to section 29.

If she survives, turn to section 57.

* 57 x

Somewhat miraculously Scatha kills all three of her
opponents, but the toll on her is extreme. She has
suffered numerous wounds and is close to total
exhaustion. She sees that there are only a few
Mountain Men left to fight, but she is not sure if she
has the stamina for it. Again, she considers whether
or not to use one of Hanju’s pearls.

If she decides to use a pearl, turn to section 60.

If she decides to keep fighting, turn to section 58.

Section 58

I’ve got to get out of here, Scatha thinks, desperate-
ly scrambling over the bodies of the fallen Moun-
tain Men. She sees Harold being pushed toward the
edge by several of the beastly creatures.

“Harold, hang on,” she shouts, breaking into a
run, “I’m coming!”

The swordswoman drives her sword between the
ribs and into the heart of one of the attackers.
Quickly pulling her blade free, she rushes to Har-
old’s side, shouting commands.

“I’m here,” she yells, blocking a blow meant for
Harold. “You go high. PH go low. Now!”

Two swords flash in the thin winter sunlight. The
confused man-beast watches dumbly as the blades
mete out his death, his great club dropping harm-
lessly to the ground.

But the endless supply of creatures rolls
on. Harold and Scatha are now fighting back to
back. The edge is too near for comfort, and the
road is too narrow for escape. A thing that was
once a man, his long red hair filthy and matted,

-_ his back crooked from an old injury, growls at
-_ the girl, and swings down at her with a double-bit

ax.

MOUNTAIN MAN
To hit hero: 16 To be hit: 8 Hit points: 8

Section 59

Damage with whatever the Mountain Man has in
hand: 1 D6
Scatha does 2 D6 with her sword.

Roll for three combats.
If Scatha dies, turn to section 29.

If not, turn to section 59.

\

Scatha’s arms are so tired she can’t lift her sword.
She is leaning against a boulder, breathing heavily,
the cold air burning her lungs.

“Harold, are you alive?”

“Barely.” (Pant, pant.) “I’m over here.” (Pant,
pant.)

“Are there any more?”

“Can’t see any. Brel’s Hell. If there are, I’m dead.
I can’t swing another blow.” (Pant.) “Picked up a
good sword. Heavy, but good.” (Pant, pant.) “Al-
ways wanted to be a swordsman.” (Groan.)

“Hurt?”

“All over. You?”

“Same.”

They stumble to what is left of the fire. Scatha
throws a couple of branches on, but it sputters
weakly. .

“I don’t know if I can go on.” Harold is bruised

Section 60

and bleeding in a dozen places. ““What we need is a
good magic spell, like the one the priest did on
you.”

Scatha draws the pouch from her shirt. She feels
inside. There is her Memory Stone, and, yes, one of
the pearls slips into her fingers. There are only
three. Can they afford to use one? Besides, she
doesn’t have the faintest idea what they do. But
they are both so hurt. This could help. Perhaps it
could have helped end the battle which brought
them to this. Using magic and gifts from the gods is
all new and very confusing.

If Scatha decides to use a Gift of Hanju, turn to
section 61.

If Scatha decides not to use a Gift of Hanju, turn to
section 62.

*« ©0 «

Scatha reaches her hand into her shirt where she
has hidden the pouch. Her fingers tingle as they
warm inside the sweaty leather armor. She feels the
Memory Stone, then digs deeper. There, there is
_one. The pearl slips into her hand.

‘Harold, hold them off.”

“Tm trying!”

A large creature, even more crazed than the
others, leaps at her gibbering sounds that are not

Section 60

quite words. She blocks his blow, deflecting his
sword past her, springs to one side, and throws the
pearl toward the fire.

Oh, please, Hanju. Let this work, she prays
silently.

Nothing happens. Scatha is livid, fighting like
one of the mad creatures herself. She is shouting at
the top of her lungs into the cold night air as she
cleaves through the endless supply of Mountain
Men. “Damn you, Hanju. How could you? I hate
you. You can’t have me. I won’t come to you dead
or alive. When the horn blows it will destroy you
too and I’m glad.”

Suddenly a flash erupts in the camp, lighting up
the night like a million torches. Scatha is thrown to
the ground. She can see Harold sprawled out a few
feet from her. The fireball mushrooms out into a
thing of beauty and terror, red and gold richly
shadowed with dove gray and soot black.

As the explosion puffs on and on, Scatha covers
her ears against the thunderous bangs that accom-
pany each new blast. She looks in awe, the searing
heat tingling on her face. Is it her imagination or is
that the face of Hanju, laughing with each crashing
boom?

Soon the fireball fades to a wispy glow, with only
a few scattered sparks dancing in the smoke.

“Are you all right, Harold?”

“Yes. You?”

“Fine, I think.”

As they crawl toward the fire, they see that every
one of the Mountain Men is dead. The two adven-

Section 61

turers lean against each other, quietly enjoying
shared camaraderie. The snow has stopped and the
stars twinkle in the crystal night.

“Harold, how do you feel?”

“Fine. Why?”

‘“‘I mean, are you really fine? I feel healed.”

“You’re right. The gash on my arm is gone.” He
is groping at all the wounded places on his body.
“And the sprained knee, and... Well, all of
them.”

“Me, too.”

The fire sparks and blazes into a warm, cheery
glow. Scatha curls up next to Harold, feeling relief
and almost happiness at the successful battle.

“I don’t think we will have any more trouble
tonight.”

They both sleep, safe and dreamless, until the
dawn.

Restore all of Scatha’s hit points.

Turn to section 63.

* @] x

“Please, Scatha. Do something. I’m dying.” Harold
does not look like the robust, brave youth who
helped Scatha at the inn. Even in the flickering light
the waxy sallowness of death can be seen on him.
Scatha moves to his side, cradling his head.

Section 61

What if it won’t heal? What if Hanju is jealous.
He did want me to stay with him. What shall I do?
Do I throw it, or feed it to Harold, or what? Scatha
remembers the priest who healed her. He threw the
herbs into the fire. Then he placed his hand on the
wounds. Well, here goes. Please, Hanju. I need this
help. And while you are helping, I’m not in much
better shape than he is.

This is no understatement. Scatha is dizzy with
exhaustion and loss of blood. She throws the pearl
into the fire. Nothing happens.

Horrified, and angry with desperation, she gasps
out, ““You worthless, no account god! How can you?
It’s not fair. Rot, damn you. When the world ends
at least it will take you with it.”

Slowly a spiral of silver smoke rises from the
faltering cold fire. At first she thinks it is no more
than the last gasp of the wet wood, but it twists and
turns into brilliant blue patterns in the air. She can
almost imagine she sees the face of Hanju, and she
is sure she can hear thunderous laughter.

Now the smoke twists toward her, engulfing her.
She feels her wounds heat up as they did when the
priest healed her. She reaches out to Harold. Per-
haps Hanju will save her, but, by all the gods, she
will save Harold. She places one hand on his brow,
the other over his heart. He glows with the un-
earthly blue glow. As she feels his body warm, she
sees the bruises and lesions glow and disappear.

The spiraling light fades. The snow has stopped.
The stars twinkle in the cold crystal air. The fire
sparks and blazes into a warm cheery glow.

Section 62

Scatha curls up next to Harold; almost relaxed
with post-battle glow.

“I don’t think we will have any more trouble
tonight.”

They both sleep, safe and dreamless, until the
dawn.

Restore all of Scatha’s hit points.

Turn to section 63.

All of a sudden another band of Mountain Men
attack Scatha and Harold.

“Harold, hold them off,’ Scatha yells.

“Tm trying!”

A large creature, even more crazed than the
others, leaps at Scatha’s gibbering sounds that are
not quite words. She blocks his blow, deflecting his
sword past her, springs to the side, and cleaves his
head off in one clean and mighty swing. Her arms
move like creatures with a mind of their own. She
knows what to do. All the fears and doubts melt in
moments of action.

Scatha is possessed, fighting like one of the mad
creatures herself. She shouts at the top of her lungs
into the cold night air as she cleaves through the
endless supply of Mountain Men, “Damn you. I
hate you all. You can’t have me, dead or alive. I

Section 62

won't join you and I won’t be your dinner. You
can’t keep me from my destiny. I must find the
horn. I wi// find the horn.”

Another lurches at her, a creature that was once a
farm woman. Scatha stabs at her, but the woman
keeps coming, pressing Scatha to the mountain
wall. Harold finishes off his latest attacker and runs
to Scatha’s aid, driving the point of his newly
acquired sword into the back of the crazed Moun-
tain Woman.

Scatha slumps, exhausted. They seem to be out
of Mountain Men for the time being. The exhilara-
tion of the fighting still dances in her mind, but her
body has had it for the day.

“TI always wanted to fight that way. The arms-
master fights like that, all the time. He told us it
would come, someday. Someday I would be out
there in a war and it would be as if all my
opponents were moving in honey, and I was mov-
ing like fire. It’s true. I hope it happens again. It’s
wonderful.”

Harold is also glowing with pride despite his
wounds. He is reverently cleaning the sword. “‘I too
had a dream. But the dreams of farmers’ sons don’t
often come true. My father fought as a footsoldier
in the war. After the war was over, he wished to stay
a soldier, and even to earn rank. But he was told
that farmers had to go back to the land or risk being
declared outlaw. I, too, wished to be a soldier. Now
I have my dream. I will not give it up.”

As they crawl toward the fire, they see that every
one of the Mountain Men is dead. The two adven-
turers lean against each other, quietly enjoying

Section 63

shared camaraderie. The snow has stopped and the
stars twinkle in the crystal night.

The fire sparks and blazes into a warm cheery
glow. Scatha curls up next to Harold, enjoying his
warmth and honest humanity.

“TY don’t think we will have any more trouble
tonight.”

They both sleep, safe and dreamless, until the
dawn.

Turn to section 64.

« 63 *

When Scatha awakes she finds Harold sitting by the
fire. He is reverently cleaning his new sword, a gift
of the Mountain Men.

“You asked me once why I joined you on this
quest. Well, part of it is that I was brought up to
protect girls . . . No, let me go on. I’ve learned you
can care for yourself and I sort of like you for it.
Honest. But there is another reason I came. I, too,
had a dream. But the dreams of farmers’ sons don’t
often come true. My father fought as a footsoldier
in the war, and after the war he wished to stay a
- soldier, and even to earn rank. But he was told that
farmers had to go back to the land or risk being
declared outlaw. I, too, wished to be a soldier. Now
I have my dream. I will not give it up.”

Turn to section 64.

Section 64

x 64 x

The morning is glorious, the thin winter sun casting
pale gold highlights on the fresh powdered snow.
The sky is bluer than can be believed by poor
mortals. The breakfast fire crackles cheerily, shed-
ding a warmth that is already not needed in the
sunlight, and the smell of the simple gruel is more
delicious than a Midwinter-Day feast.

They both feel rested and refreshed, and not like
two people who have braved storms and enemies
and are on a quest to save the world. But the
peaceful time must end, and Scatha and Harold
break camp and face the new day.

The bodies of the Mountain Men lie scattered
over the narrow battlefield. Harold stops and bends
over one, rolling him over.

“Oh, dear gods,” he gasps.

““What’s the matter?” Scatha asks, looking down
at the body. Through the dirt and shaggy hair, she
can see the sandy-haired young man this corpse
once was.

“Remember I told you about my cousin who
disappeared into the mountains, and how we
hoped he had died rather than becoming one of the
beasts? Well, he’s dead now.”

“Harold, I'm so sorry,” Scatha says, gently laying
her hand on his arm.

They stop to cover the body with snow. It is all
they can do. The ground will not thaw enough to

Section 64

dig in until summer, and in some summers, not
even then.

“J just realized that all of these creatures were
once somebody’s cousin, or mother, or husband,”
Scatha says, looking down at the makeshift grave
and shuddering. ““We may owe Hanju for his gifts,
but this place is not good for mortals. Let’s get off
this mountain as fast as we can.”

They slog down the road, making good time
considering the drifted snow and the fact that each
of them is burdened with saddlebags. By midmorn-
ing they reach the temple they should have reached
the night before. They stop to replenish their sup-
plies and eat in safety, then push on.

“You know we probably won’t reach the next -
temple by nightfall,” Harold says.

“IT know and I don’t care. All I care about is going
faster. I had a peek into the Memory Stone back
there; and I saw Drukor, and I saw the two moons
growing closer to conjunction. We may not be in
time whatever we do. But I cannot risk not trying.”

But by what seemed some miracle, they do spend
the night sheltered from the weather, and worse. By
the day after they are well on their way down the oth-
er side of the mountain, the side warmed by the
winds which come off the great desert wastes of the
Asheera. Here, there is not much snow to slow
them, and they are soon hiking down forested hills.

After a lunch of dried meat strips, Harold sits,
whittling a stick. ““You should get into some proper
clothes,” Harold suggests.

“Proper?” she repeats, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, proper. Girls don’t dress like that down

Section 64

here. They will probably think you are Asheeran, or
worse,” Harold answers coolly, ignoring Scatha’s
sarcasm.

“So?” Scatha answers defiantly. “Rifkind is
Asheeran and—”

“Exactly, and they probably would think she was
a witch even if she wasn’t a warrior, which is
strange enough.... Down here, that is. Easy,
Scatha, easy.”’ He ducks the handful of leaves she
throws at him.

““No. I won’t wear girl clothes,” she insists.

‘As you wish, but it may cause trouble and that
will slow us up,” Harold adds seriously. “Think
about it.”

Scatha fumes as she troops down the road. It is
true that we will be less noticed that way. I could
try to pass for a boy again. No, that isn’t sure
enough. And my leathers could use some sewing
and patches. Oh, well.

‘“‘Harold, if it will make you breathe easier, I'll do
it.”

“Do what?”

“Wear a skirt, rabbit-brain! But only until we are
over the border. By the way, where do I get this
skirt?”

As if the gods are listening, the next turn in the
road reveals a small farm not far off, and flapping
in the breeze is a line of fresh wash.

“There!” Scatha points to it in triumph. “Let’s
go down and ask the family if we can buy some
clothes.” .

“Buy? No, we'll have to steal them. These folks

Section 65

don’t have but one or two sets of clothing. It’s not a
grand estate like Chatelgard. Besides, I don’t think
we can explain you. Farmers are slow, but not
stupid. They'd know in a shot you are not some
simple local girl. They’d take you for a witch for
sure. Trust me.”

They argue the pros and cons of being seen by the
farm family. Finally they agree on a plan.

If they choose to try to buy clothes, turn to section
65.

If they choose to try to steal clothes, turn to section -
66.

“T still think this is a big mistake,” Harold grum-
bles as they approach the farm.

Two small children are in the farmyard, a girl of
about five or six who is throwing grain to the fowl,
and a toddler who is crawling around after her.
When the girl sees the strangers she scoops her
baby brother into her arms and staggers off to the
house.

“Mommy, Mommy, strangers.”

‘““Now we are in for it,” Harold whispers. “Let me
do the talking.”

A large red-faced farm woman comes to the
door, shoves the children in roughly, and shouts at

Section 65

Harold and Scatha, scowling, “Who are you and
what do you want?”

‘*‘Please, Mother. We came over the mountain,
my bride and I, to find my uncle. He promised to
*prentice me when I wed.”

“Mmm.” The housewife looks unconvinced.
‘‘Why is your bride dressed like that? More like a
footsoldier than a maiden, if you ask me.”

‘““Yes, Mother. It was to protect her from brig-
ands, we thought to dress her as a boy. My brother
gave us the clothes.”

“So, what do you want?”

“We lost most of our belongings running from
the Mountain Men. She needs some proper clothes
before we can go to my uncle’s house.”’ Harold puts
an emphasis on proper that makes Scatha wince,
but she says nothing.

“ll trade you for the leather armor. My young-
est son could use that.”

““No,” Scatha protests, but, biting her tongue,
adds more modestly, “I promised my brother-in-
law to return it next spring.”

The farm woman scowls at them, apparently
making up her mind about them. Finally she wipes
her hands off on her apron and shakes her head and
says, “I don’t like your looks. Get off the farm.”

Scatha doesn’t particularly want the peasant’s
clothes, but she is not about to be kicked off the
property like some beggar without a struggle. But
this will take strategy, not force.

The tough young swordswoman puts on her
sweetest and most maidenly smile and pleads, “‘Oh,

Section 66

Mother, I would feel so ashamed meeting my dear
husband’s kin looking like this. Please, we can pay
you a fair price for a shift and skirt. It would mean
so much to me.” Scatha actually sheds a tiny tear,
much to Harold’s astonishment.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Charisma value, turn to section 67.

If the total is greater than her Charisma value, turn
to section 68.

*« 66 x

They start down toward the farm and its laundry
line. They move cautiously. It is still too far to tell
for certain how many folk are in the farmyard, and
no way to tell how many are in the farmhouse.
They settle into a large clump of tall grass for some
serious reconnaissance.

“Tm sure that is a child, a young one by the way
she moves,” Scatha says. “And a baby with her, or
maybe a small dog... No, that is a child,” she
adds, squinting to get a clearer look.

‘‘Are you sure there are women’s clothes on the
line?”

“Yes, besides, either a shift or a man’s shirt will
do, and there are several shirts. And I think that

Section 67

* 67 *

The farm wife eyes her, then breaks into a wide
rin.

“Very well, girl. You can have my daughter-in-
law’s very best skirt and shift, and Ill throw in a
bodice for good measure. But it will cost you five
pennies.”

Scatha thinks this is outrageous for a set of rags,
as she is sure they will be. Harold reaches for the
pouch of gold the priest gave them, but she places
her hand over his to stop him.

“Oh, husband dear, don’t use our household
pennies, when I can use the pennies my father gave
me.” She fixes him with a meaningful look.

He bends over to her and whispers, ““Don’t you
think you are spreading the butter pretty thick, wife
dear?”

She quickly produces five pennies from her
pouch. But the farm wife’s sharp eye has watched
the exchange between them.

““Now, while I take your new garments from the
chest upstairs, come into the house and let me feed
you a good hot meal. There is a cauldron of stew on
and bread. Maybe even a drop of beer.”

She throws her huge arm around Scatha and
shepherds her into the farmhouse, with Harold
trailing behind.

When the woman has gone to fetch the garments,
Scatha urges, “We have got to get out of here,

Section 67

Harold. I’m sure she knows we have money. When
her husband and sons get back from the fields, we
could be in big trouble. I don’t want to kill these
people.”

The small girl child totters up to the table carry-
ing a coarse dark loaf of bread. Harold looks at the
child and then nods in agreement to Scatha.

The woman comes down with the clothes. Scatha
was right; they are rags. And she also knows that
the girl whom she bought them from will never see
a penny of the payment.

The blushing bride excuses herself and goes
upstairs to the common sleeping room and quickly
changes clothes, belting up the skirt, which is too
long. She rolls her armor carefully and regretfully
stuffs it into her bags. It is bulky and heavy when it
is off, and she thinks, miserably, I hope we don’t get
into a fight. Between these damnable skirts and the
weight of the armor, I’m not going to be good for
fighting or running.

With a final tug and pat, she is satisfied she looks
the part of a peasant maid and goes downstairs
where a hot meal of turnip and onion stew, with a
few bits of wild mushroom and herbs, is waiting.
Whatever doubts the travelers have about this
household, there is no doubt that this hearth pro-
vides good, hearty food.

After supper, the farm woman says, “I will make
up a bed for you two upstairs. You must be weary,
and when I was a bride I would never turn down a
chance for a little extra cuddle.” She adds this last
with a suggestive gesture and a broad wink. Scatha
catches Harold’s eye, and they both fight down a

Section 67

giggle. Maybe the woman is really being kind. It is
tempting, Scatha thinks. Harold imperceptibly
shakes his head no and Scatha subtly nods in
agreement.

“Thank you, Mother,” Harold begins, with the
authority of a new husband, “but we cannot stay.
We are already long overdue at my uncle’s, and he
will be concerned.”

“One night won’t make any difference,” the
woman replies, shoving Harold toward the steep
stairs.

Scatha grabs Harold’s arm and drags him back
toward the door, snatches up all their goods, and
they bolt out the door.

“Thank you, Mother,” she shouts behind her,
“but we really must go.”

When they reach the road, they both have to stop
to catch their breaths, especially Scatha who is
stooped under the extra burden of her armor and
long skirts.

They look back and see four tiny figures ap-
proaching the farm. The farmer and his family are
back from the fields.

“I’m glad we didn’t overstay our welcome,”
Scatha says.

“Me, too,” agrees Harold, “although they might
have meant us no harm.”

“Ha,” Scatha laughs, “and you were the one who

suggested the only safe way was to steal the Shes =

You were right. No more extra risks.” —

ae to section 69.

Section 68

*« 68 x
“I don’t know what you two are up to,” the farm
woman shouts at them, shaking her fist in a very
believable manner, “but I don’t want any brigands
or thieves on my farm. Now, get out. Go get your
disguises somewhere else.”

She makes a threatening move at them, and they
both turn tail and run for the road.

The two heroes are panting hard as they lay
sprawled out under a tree some distance from the
farm. Scatha bursts into laughter.

“We managed to beat Mountain Men and head
off Black Riders, and we were just driven off by an
old woman and two babies. Oh, well!”

Harold chuckles. ““We still have the problem of
clothes. If we had hoped to steal her wash, by now
I'd warrant it’s in the house, or at least guarded by
one of her brood. We’re back to where we started.”

“‘There must be an inn or village along this road
somewhere. I guess we should just try the story
again. I'd bet a merchant or serving wench would
be more willing to take our coin without asking
questions.”

They continue on, and by midday they come to a
ramshackle inn.

“Wonderful!” Scatha exclaims sarcastically. “I
don’t know if I'd trust anybody here to feed me a
crust of bread. Are you sure I can’t just bluff it out
wearing my armor?”

Section 69

“Pretty sure.”

They enter the inn. Inside there is a serving
wench scrubbing a table, while a local denizen of
the inn sleeps in a corner.

“Hello, the inn!’ Scatha calls.

The girl looks up. “All we have is bread and
cheese. The soup is cooking, but won’t be ready for
hours yet.”

““That’s not what I wish to buy.” Scatha tells the
girl what she needs, without bothering to make any
excuses. The girl does not ask any questions but
agrees enthusiastically to sell her oldest clothes for
the sum of five pennies, which will more than outfit
her in a style she never expected.

Within the hour the two are back on the road,
well fed on cheese, bread, fall apples, and beer,
although Scatha mutters a long string of bitter
complaints as the skirt hampers her stride, and her
armor, now packed on her back, causes a further
burden.

Turn to section 69.

« 69 *

The rest of the day and the next are uneventful,
except that they are coming to civilization, if one
can call it that. The small villages are heavily

_ shuttered, and even the merchants are surly. Scatha

has slit the skirt so that she can reach her sword, —

= which she has hidden underneath. Harold is now

Section 69

carrying her shield since they agreed that would be
easier to explain. Scatha feels very vulnerable and
is getting angrier and angrier that she has been
deprived of armor, and to some extent weapons,
and is left helpless for no better reason than her
gender.

Scatha and Harold are finally within sight of the
walls of the border town, Isinglas, but have arrived
after nightfall. The town gates are locked and they
decide to wait until morning rather than make
themselves an annoyance to the gate guards.

Camped by the edge of a field, they decide to risk
a small fire and hot meal, buying provisions from a
nearby peasant and his plump wife.

Scatha sits leaning back against her pack, munch-
ing on a still-sizzling sausage, which is spurting
delicious, spicy juice with each bite. “How long do
you figure we have been on the road?”

““About ten or eleven days.”

““That’s what I figure, too. I wish I could remem-
ber what the priest told us about the conjunction.
As near as I can tell we have about twenty days
left . . . Let’s say fifteen to be on the safe side.”

“Try the Memory Stone. Maybe that will tell
you.”

“I tried it yesterday. Nothing!”

They had been avoiding contact with strangers as
much as they could, except to buy food. Once, a
man in a dark-hooded cloak galloped past them on
the road. It was still a topic of conversation be-
tween them whether or not the man was just a
traveler in a hurry or if he was part of some sinister
gathering of the Dark Brethren. Scatha was sure she

Section 69

had seen the characteristic dark mark on his face as
he rode past, but Harold insisted she was making it
up, or it was only a birthmark or a mustache or
something else just as innocent.

“Harold, are you sure you want to go into the
desert with me?” Scatha asks, trying to sound
casual. The young warrior is still troubled about
taking her friend with her. “I’m really glad you
came with me this far, but, well, I can’t ask you to
face the kind of danger I expect to find there.”

‘““You’re not asking me. I’m volunteering,” Har-
old answers cheerfully, but firmly.

“No, really.” Scatha is struggling to put into
words all her concern for her friend, and her fears
about what lies ahead, and she knows she is making
a botch of it.

“Really, Scatha,” Harold interrupts, “‘we’ve
talked about this before. You may have found out
about this first, and maybe you are the gods’ chosen
champion. I would not doubt that one minute. But
if this Drakor, or Drukor, or whatever his name is,
lets all the evil beyond the worlds loose on us, no
one will be safe, and no one will be a bystander. Pm
proud to help, and Ill take my chances with you
anytime.”

Scatha is moved almost to tears but says only,
Res you, Harold. ’'m proud of your help, and

I'm glad of your company.’

The next morning they join the small crowd of _

travelers who wait at the town gate, and are soon
passed inside by the bored young guard.
They find themselves an inn, and spend the next

Section 69

several days shopping. Scatha has asked the inn-
keeper if there is an astrologer in the town (‘So that
my husband and I can start a family on a lucky
day.”), but there is a decided reluctance to talk
about anything that smacks of witchcraft. Now
she’s glad she is dressed anonymously.

After another endless shopping trip, they turn up
the Street of Coppersmiths, the stench of the Street
of Tanners still in their nostrils. They have pur-
chased water bags, a canvas lean-to, fresh flint
(although Scatha has no idea what they will use for
firewood in the desert), and the dozens of other
things they will need. Scatha has gotten a lead on
an astrologer, and they have been told that three
streets down from the leather shop a horse fair will
be held today. Two steeds, and some foodstuffs, and
they will be ready to face the Asheera.

“The woman in the leather shop told me that her
brother is leading a caravan across the Asheeran
waste, near where we need to go. He leaves tomor-
row. She told me his name and suggested a fair
price to offer him to join the caravan,” Scatha tells
Harold as they approach the horse fair.

Already the sellers are parading their animals,
and a few early deals have been made. Harold goes
to look at a sturdy shaggy chestnut. Scatha is again
glad to have him along. His skill in ee
would make his parents proud. — ——

“Harold, the star gazer lives near here. Why Zs

don’t I go ahead and see him, and Ill meet you
back at the inn. I really have to know when the
conjunction is before we can make any further

Section 69

plans; although you might contact the caravan
leader anyhow and fix a price in case we want to
leave with him.”

““Makes sense. See you later,” he says, adding,
‘“‘and be careful.”

“Aren't I always,” she rejoins, grinning, but
Harold’s face shows the concern he has for this
brave lady.

Scatha wanders down the Street of Weavers,
casually looking at wares in shops and stalls. The
alley between the last silk merchant, and the first
rug dealer. Here it is, she thinks, slipping unnoticed
down the narrow lane. She knocks at the green door
as instructed and is admitted by a watery-eyed
man, who is visibly uneasy. Gods, Scatha muses as
he escorts her in, these magic-haters certainly have
everybody terrified. —

“How can I help you, child?” the old man asks,
his voice quivering and his limbs shaking as with
palsy. He sweeps a clear space on his table, pushing
aside charts and fascinating brass instruments of
his trade. ““A babe, perhaps, or a wedding?”

“No, Father, it is not that. I would like to know
when next the two moons join in conjunction.”

The old scholar’s face turns white. He looks
fearfully back at the curtain to his sleeping room.
“Leave!” he whispers desperately.

Her first thought is to protest, arguing that she

___will not tell the authorities of his sorceries, but she

~ realizes that something else is wrong. She starts to
reach for her sword through the slit in her skirt as

Section 70 —

the curtains part and two looming figures in black
cloaks leap out to grab her. She lunges for the door,
sending her chair crashing over.

Roll 3 Do.

If the total is less than or equal to Scatha’s Dexterity —
value, turn to section 72.

If the total is greater than SeaING: 's Dexterity value,
go to section 74.

* 70 *

Scatha practically skims along without her feet
touching ground, zigzagging to avoid rocks and
holes. She dares not look back. I wonder if they are
going to chase us all the way to the Asheera? she
wonders. The road is ahead. So is Harold. They
both bound onto the road, snatch up the saddle-
bags, and keep running as fast as they can. Finally
they stagger to a halt. There is no one behind them.

“t think we had better not push our luck, and
keep moving.”

““Agreed,” pants Harold, but it is some minutes
before either of them moves.

Scatha is the first to grin and break into a laugh,
but soon they are both howling with mirth, and
relief.

Section 71

. “J think I was more afraid of that woman with
the pitchfork than I was with the Mountain Men
and the Black Riders together,” Harold chortles.

They continue chuckling as they go down the
road, recounting the Tale of the Laundry to each
other. By midafternoon they finally feel safe
enough to stop and eat something from the dwin-
dling supply in their packs. :

Scatha changes into the hated “girl clothes,”
rolling her armor into a bulky bundle and stuffing it
into her pack, muttering as the skirt hampers her
stride. Her armor, now on her back, is a further
burden.

Turn to section 69.

* Wi *

Scatha’s feet hardly touch the ground as she runs
up the meadow. She can hear the shouts of the farm
folk behind her, getting louder as they close the
distance. She is losing her wind, and slowing down.
She is just about to drop the stolen clothes and
make a last effort when she stumbles on a stone and
sprawls painfully on the ground. She struggles to
rise, but a huge, callused paw of a hand grabs her by ~
the shoulder and slams her back down.

“Let go, let go. PIl pay for the clothes. I can —
explain.”

Section 71

“Oh, you'll pay for them, all right.”

She is hauled up to face a bear of a man. This oaf
would make a fine candidate for a Mountain Man,
Scatha thinks as she quickly tries to assess her
chances of talking her way out of this.

“Why are you dressed like that? Have you no
shame?” The farm wife, red-faced and coarse, is
shouting at her. Scatha thinks how like the cook at
Chatelgard she is, and takes an immediate dislike
to the woman.

“I know why, woman,” the man answers. “‘She is
a witch.”

““No.” Scatha tries to protest, but she is cuffed
roughly in the face. The farmer twists her arm
behind her painfully, pushing it high up her back.
She’s shoved forward, forced to walk quickly or fall
to the ground. Witches aren’t treated like ladies,
Scatha observes to herself.

She now notices that two of the farm folk have
not followed her, but gone after Harold. But he has
gotten a good headstart, and they are returning to
the house, angry and empty-handed. ee

When they arrive the older lad says; “Father, ce —
other got away.” The way the boy flinches tells
Scatha much about this “loving” family. SZ

‘“‘No matter,” the man bellows importantly, “he
will come back for her, and then we will get him.”

They tie Scatha to a fence post where she can Be=
seen from across the meadow, an obvious lure to
Harold.

““Get used to it, witch. They will tie you to a post

Section 71

when they burn you,” the older son taunts as he
cruelly pulls the ropes on her wrists tight.

Scatha, not used to such ill treatment, finds her
pride leaping to tongue before common sense. “Ill
see you and your family burn in hell before I’m
dead,” she hisses.

‘“‘Watch yourself, witch, or I'll burn you before
the magistrate passes judgment,” the boy says,
cracking her across the face.

Like father, like son, you bully, Scatha thinks,
_ but gives him no chance to hit her again.

“See what she has. Maybe she has gold,” the
farmer orders the boy. The son leers at her, wetting
his lips with the prospect of searching her, but the
farm wife pushes him aside.

“Ill do that. You keep your hands off the witch:
They can do things to men.”

The woman gropes and pokes none too politely
around Scatha’s belt, looking for money. She finally
spies the bulge under the armor where Scatha has
hidden the blue pouch. The woman roughly jerks it
out. Scatha’s heart sinks.

The man growls, “‘Give it to me,” and snatches it
from his wife.

He empties out her treasures into his hand and
inspects them suspiciously. He picks out the Mem-
ory Stone and tosses it aside. Then he picks out c one
of the pearllike Gifts of Hanju.

“Mmmm, this might be worth onan”

“T wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” Scatha
warns.

Section 71

The farmer’s bushy eyebrows shoot up as he
shouts, ““Witchcraft!”’

“Don't throw it!’ But it is too late. The big pearl
arcs up into the air, hovering for a moment at the |
apogee, shimmering against the clear blue sky.

And then it explodes. The sky is covered with
showers of lightning, but lightning in the most
brilliant and fantastic colors. Balls of sparkles
follow, like giant dandelions of colored light. The
show continues growing more wondrous.

The farm folk are shouting and yelling and
running aimlessly around the yard. Scatha notices
that the lights are very pretty, but they are not
doing anything very useful except scaring the wits
out of this generally witless family. She knows the
show won’t last, and she is still tied to a post, and
when it is over these people are going to be danger-
ously furious.

The light show seems to be ending, billows of
sweet-smelling smoke settling to the ground. Sud-
denly out of the smoke a figure appears.

“Harold!”

“Don’t move.” He is slicing away her bonds.
“There, you are free. And take this.”

He hands her a sword. His is already unsheathed.
When the smoke clears the family is no longer
facing a helpless victim, but two very competent
and armed warriors. .

The older son, the bully, makes a run at Scatha.
“Here, witch. Give me that before you hurt your-
seit.”

Section 71

Scatha’s code of honor won’t allow her to kill a
witless peasant, no matter how much he deserves it.
But she does use the flat of her sword to whack him
in the head, hard enough that he falls senseless to
the ground.

“We will leave with no killing, if you back off.”

The farmer has pulled a long knife, almost a
short sword in length and mass. The remaining
brother has grabbed a pitchfork, and the two
women have armed themselves with hoes.

“Don’t let them flank us,” Scatha shouts to
Harold. “‘Separate.”

Harold obeys, circling away from Scatha, forcing
their opponents to divide. The two women move
toward Harold, their closer target, leaving Scatha to
face the two men.

FARM FAMILY

Scatha combats the farm father first. His family
does not interfere.

To hit Scatha: 13 To be hit: 11 Hit points: 8
Damage with knife: 1 D6 (father)

Damage with sword: 2 D6 (son)

If she kills her opponent start second combat with
the farmer's son.

To hit Scatha: 11 To be hit: 14 Hit points: 7
Damage with pitchfork: 1 D6 (son)

Damage with sword: 2 D6

If Scatha dies, turn to section 29.

If she kills her foes, turn to section 73.

Section 72

Drawing her sword and deftly tucking up her skirt,
she rushes toward the door. Fumbling for the latch
she feels one of the men grab her, but she kicks her
foot back into his kneecap. She hears him groan as
he falls into his companion. She gets the door open
and dashes to freedom.

Startled locals stare as the breathless girl, bran-
dishing a broadsword, bounds out of the alley into
the busy street. Scatha grins sheepishly, holding the
sword out of sight by her side as she ducks into the
crowd, making her way toward the horse fair.
Glancing around, she can see the black-cloaked
men stalking her, but she is hidden by the crowd.

The horse fair is going full swing by now, and
many townspeople crowd around the best live-
stock. This is great for protection, but how can I
find Harold in all this? I won’t. I'll hide at the inn,
she plans, but the chilling thought strikes her that
someone told the Brethren that a girl was looking
for an astrologer, and it might be the innkeeper as
easily as a merchant.

But as people surge from one auction to the next,
she spots her quarry.

“Harold!” He turns, trying to locate her. She
Starts to call to him again when she hears a voice
commanding her to freeze, and she stops in her
tracks. .

Section 72

The voice is as much in her head as something
she hears. It oozes into her mind and will. She
strains to run, to escape, but she feels like she is
swimming in thick mud. The voice goes on, insis-
tently, ““Come to me, girl.”

Obediently she turns. A group of four Dark
Brethren stand next to her, the two guards, the big
bearded leader whom she has met before, and
another. But it is not the leader whom she fears the
most. Her eyes rivet on the other man in black. He
is thin to the point of being gaunt, with hawk-sharp
features. But it is his eyes. They burn into her as she
is inexorably drawn to him. The big bearded man
seizes her.

“Now, now, Athelstan,” the oily one chides,
“always so physical. You must learn that there is
more power in the mind, my son.”

“Yes, my lord,” Athelstan growls, but he does not
loosen his grip on her.

But the bearded man’s savage hold is not needed,
as Scatha sags stupidly, totally ensorcelled by the
hawk-faced man’s voice. Look at all the pretty
horsies, she dreamily thinks as she stares across the
marketplace. Why is that man running toward me?
He’ll frighten all the pretty horsies.

““Scatha!”” Harold’s frightened voice snaps the
spell and she struggles to get free, but Athelstan’s
viselike grip holds her firm.

The Dark Lord turns toward Harold and points a
bony finger at him. A blue flame sears out past
Scatha, who struggles to turn her head to see what
is happening. She hears Harold groan, and then a

Section 72

thud. The townspeople who have gathered around
move back, offering her no help as she is carried
away by the Dark Brethren.

Tied and blindfolded, she is thrown into a cart
and covered with straw. It seems like hours of
painful thumping along before she is yanked from
the cart, dragged along cold stone floors, roughly
untied, and thrown into a cell.

Scatha sits miserably in the small dark room. She
has tried to break open the door until her hands
were so bruised she couldn’t move them. She
doesn’t even know how long she has been in here.
She slept twice, and found gruel and water each
time she awoke. The first time she did not eat or
drink, but the second she felt so weak and dehy-
drated that she decided to risk it. So far there have
been no ill effects.

She hears footsteps. She Sees herself behind
the door. The door opens.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, turn to section 76.

If the total is greater than her Dexterity value, turn
to section 80.

Section 73

*« FB «

The farmyard is littered with the dead and injured.
Scatha, looking down at the tormented faces, is
filled with rage at the needless destruction she has
wrought. These are peasants, poor peasants, and
her warrior’s honor tells her that she should de-
fend, not kill, those less skilled than herself. There
must have been a better way. The swordswoman
knows that there is a lesson to be learned this day,
one which she must never forget.

Lowering her bloodied sword, she turns to Har-
old, whose face is as pale and drawn as her own. “I
never wanted it to be this way. Really.” Her voice
trembles and she clears it before she can go on.
‘Are all farmers like these here, ready and willing
to kill anyone different from themselves?”

“No, Scatha,” he answers gently, watching the
only unharmed farm girl herding the frightened
children into the house. He has made orphans
today, and these children’s lives will never be the
same. There is nothing he can do that will give
them back what he has stolen from them.

Trying to make sense out of the carnage, he
continues, “My family is not like this. The low-
lands were hardest hit by the war. After years of
invading armies sweeping through the land, these
people feel they can trust no one. Maybe they’re
right,” he adds bitterly, shaking his head. “In any
case, swordswoman, we will have to be more

Section 73

careful until we reach the desert, or there will be
more death.”

“Who would have thought the desert would
represent safety? These are strange times. Let’s go.”

“What about your clothes?”

“IT couldn’t wear them. We’ll find others.”

She gathers up the blue pouch, the Memory
Stone, what remains of the Gifts of Hanju, and her
few other precious things, and tucks them back
under her shirt.

They go back to the road and retrieve their
hidden saddlebags and packs.

“There must be an inn or village along this road
somewhere. I’d bet a merchant or serving wench
would be willing to take our coin without asking
questions.”

They continue on, and by midday they come to a
ramshackle inn.

“Wonderful!” Scatha exclaims sarcastically. “I
don’t know if I’d trust anybody here to feed me a
crust of bread. Are you sure I can’t just bluff out
wearing my armor?”

“Pretty sure.”

They enter the inn. Inside there is a serving
wench scrubbing a table, while a local denizen of
the inn sleeps in a corner.

“Hello, the inn!” Scatha calls.

The girl looks up. “All we have is bread and.
_ cheese. The soup is cooking, but won’t be ready oe

hours yet.”
“That’s not what I wish to buy.” Scatha tells the

= Ze girl what she needs, without bothering to make any

excuses. The girl does not ask any questions but

Section 74

agrees enthusiastically to sell her oldest clothes for
the sum of five pennies, which will more than outfit
her in a style she never expected.

Within the hour the two are back on the road,
well fed on cheese, bread, fall apples, and beer,
although Scatha mutters a long string of bitter
complaints as the skirt hampers her stride, and her
armor, now packed on her back, causes a further
burden.

Turn to section 69.

x FQ x

Pulling her skirt up, fighting to untangle the sword,
she stumbles toward the door. Fumbling for the
latch, she feels one of the men grab her, but she
kicks her foot back into his kneecap. She hears him
groan as he falls into his companion. She gets the
door open and is about to dash to freedom when |
she hears a commanding voice say “Freeze!” She is
frozen in her tracks.

The voice is as much in her head as something
she hears. It oozes into her mind and will. She
strains to run, to escape, but she feels like she is
swimming in thick mud. The voice goes on, insis-
tently, “Come to me, girl.”

Obediently she turns. Two more Dark Brethren
have entered the room; one is the big bearded
leader whom she has met before. But it is not this
man whom she fears the most. Her eyes rivet on the

Section 74

other man in black. He is thin to the point of being
gaunt, with hawk-sharp features. But it is his eyes.
They burn into her as she is inexorably drawn to
him. The bearded man seizes her.

“Now, now, Athelstan,” the oily one chides,
“always so physical. You must learn that there is
more power in the mind, my son.”

“Yes, my lord,” Athelstan growls, but he does not
loosen his grip on her.

They drag her out of the small dwelling and back
toward the square, Scatha going obediently with
them, ensorcelled by the hawk-faced man’s com-
mand.

Look at all the pretty horsies, she dreamily
thinks as they cross the marketplace. Why is that
man running toward me? He’ll frighten all the
pretty horsies.

““Scatha!”” Harold’s voice snaps the spell and she
struggles to get free, but Athelstan’s viselike grip
holds her firm.

The Dark Lord turns toward Harold and points a
bony finger at him. A blue flame sears out past
Scatha, who struggles to turn her head to see what
is happening. She hears Harold groan, and then a
thud. The townspeople who have gathered around
move back, offering her no help as she is carried
away by the Dark Brethren.

Tied and blindfolded, she is thrown into a cart
and covered with straw. It seems like hours of
painful thumping along before she is yanked from
the cart, dragged along cold stone floors, PHS
and thrown into a cell.

Scatha sits miserably in the small dark room. She

Section 75

has tried to break open the door until her hands
were so bruised she couldn’t move them. She
doesn’t even know how long she has been in here.
She slept twice, and found gruel and water each
time she awoke. The first time she did not eat or
drink, but the second she felt so weak and dehy-
drated that she decided to risk it. So far there have
been no ill effects.

She hears footsteps. She flattens herself behind
the door. The door opens.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, turn to section 76.

If the total is greater than her Dexterity value, turn
to section 80.

* 75 «

Scatha is scrambling for all she is worth, but the
sand is grabbing her like hands, and she isn’t
making much distance. She glances back to see the
creature arching over her for the kill. It strikes and
misses, Scatha rolling out of the way and down the
small dune. She can’t see it, so it can’t see her. But
it can smell her. She clambers to her feet and starts
to run, grateful for the stretch of crusted sand
which is giving her the footing to sprint to some
advantage. As she runs she can feel the creature

Section 76

thrashing behind her. It has turned away, seeking
some easier prey, but as it leaves, its tail sweeps
past her and she can feel the stinger rake her leg.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Constitution value, turn to section 15.

If it is greater than Scatha’s Constitution value, turn
to section 12.

x 76 *

Scatha tenses to spring past her guard. She knows
timing will be critical, too soon and he will grab
her, too slow and it would be a fight. Her sword is
gone, and so is her pouch. Hand-to-hand combat is
a slow and often losing proposition for both par-
ties.

The guard moves cautiously into the room, look-
ing around, his sword half-drawn. Scatha’s mind
screams at her body, Now! She slams the door into
the man, sending him reeling against the door-
frame. .

She lunges past him, her heart pounding as she
almost expects to run into a hall full of his compan-
ions, but the hall is empty. Running wildly and
__ choosing her route blindly, she can hear the shouts
__ of the guard calling for assistance, and the sound of
his feet pounding up the hall after her. She chooses

Section 77

a left-hand corridor and runs on. The sound of the
chase fades behind her and she slows to a cautious
walk. Wherever she is, she is no longer in the city.
This place must be as large as Chatelgard.

Turn to section 77.

« 77 *

Scatha comes to a staircase, hesitating while she
decides if she should go up or down. She has no
idea where she is, or even if she is above or below
ground level. Shrugging off her indecision, she
plunges down the stairs. It is dark in the stairwell,
and dangerously hard to see the steps. Scatha is
about to go back and get a torch from the hallway
above when she sees the bluish glow of daylight,
and she feels a breeze of fresh air. Perhaps there is a
way out.

It’s only a matter of time before they find me, she
thinks. I have got to get out. Oh, Mohandru, how
long do I have left before the conjunction?

At the bottom of the stairs there is but one
-corridor, and the solution to the mystery of the
light and the breeze. There are narrow slits in the
walls, and weak daylight filters in. She tries to climb
to them but the walls are too smooth, and the
windows too high. She looks down the corridor. At
the end is a heavy iron-bound door.

Cautiously, the trapped girl approaches the door
and listens, but hears no sound. Experimentally she

Section 78

pulls down on the latch and is astonished to find it
unlocked.

Her eyes adjust to the dark room, illuminated
only by the faint light of the corridor. Inside lie
piles of chests, moldering rolls of carpets, and the
miscellaneous storage of years of accumulated
booty and personal wealth. Everything is covered
with a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.

Something catches her eye, something wonder-
ful. It is the hilt of a broadsword. Her heart is
thumping as she pulls and strains to unearth it
from the jumble of junk which buries it.

Oh, please, gods, let it be unbroken, she prays. It
is. She hefts it. It is heavy, but the balance is
beautiful. She whoops with pleasure as she swings
it. She feels whole again.

There is nothing more here for her. She returns
to the staircase and begins to climb.

Congratulations! Your hero has just obtained a +2
sword. (See rules for its effect in combat.)

Proceed to section 85.

* FB «
Scatha lies dirty and bruised on the floor of the cell.
Her head is still throbbing. She is not only tired but

depressed. There has not been any food or water —_—
for a while, either.

Section 78

“Scatha, you must not give up,” she chides
herself, using the sound of her own voice for
company. She drags herself to her feet and searches
the small cell for the hundredth time for any tool
any weapon.

“Oh, damnation!” she cries, striking the wall,
then yipping with pain at the new bruise on her
hand. As she sucks the self-inflicted wound, some-
thing strikes the ground and rolls by her foot. It is a
stone the size of her fist. Excitedly she examines the
wall, but there is no gap, only the indentation
where the small stone has broken from its mortar.

It’s not much but it is all she has. She settles
down to wait.

Before long she hears footsteps, just one pair of
feet as near as she can tell. She can hardly breathe
as she waits to hear the lock turn. A big guard, with
a club in one hand and a bowl in the other, enters.

Scatha lies on the floor of the cell, her skirt
pulled above her knees. She doesn’t have much
experience, but she hopes she looks seductive, and
she pretends to cry.

““What’s the matter?” the guard grunts.

“I’m so frightened and lonely.” She looks up
from under her lashes at the hulking brute.

“Lonely, huh! Well, I can take care of that.” He
leers at her, and tosses away the bowl.

She knows she can’t let him jump her. He’s just
too big and heavy to fight off. She gets to her feet
and approaches him, smiling sweetly, and swinging
her hips suggestively. It’s working. He stands still,
enjoying the show. He grabs for her. As he does she

Section 79

rushes him, slamming him on the temple as hard as
she can with the rock in her hand.

He falls back groaning, holding his head in
surprise. Dark blood is seeping past his fingers and
down his arm. She strikes at him again, this time
smashing into his face. He groans again, holding
his broken nose.

She darts past him and into the hall.

It takes the guard a second to realize what has
happened, but he is soon after her.

She hears his feet pounding down the hall, but
she can’t take any time to look. She must lose him.
She turns down a left-hand corridor, choosing
blindly. The guard has gone for help. She can hear
him shouting, and soon he-is joined by more
shouting guards. She chooses another corridor and
runs on. By now the sound of the chase has faded.
She slows to a cautious walk. Wherever she is, she
is no longer in the city. This place must be as large
as Chatelgard.

Turn to section 77.

« FQ x

Scatha already knows that the damn sand is grab-
bing at her like hands, and she isn’t gaining any
distance by trying to run for it.

I didn’t come all this way to be killed from —

behind, she decides desperately, and she turns to

meet the thing. It arches over her, blotting out the

Section 80

sky, its dozens of spiny arms weaving and reaching
for her, snapping its claws with sharp little clicks.
The mandible doesn’t click at her. It grinds!

She swings and jabs, but the damn thing is not
only larger than a house, it is in its element, and she
is not in hers. It crashes down to crush her, but she
rolls out of the way. She can see the silhouette of its
tail with its deadly stinger arch over to reach for
her. She scrambles to her feet, dodging and strik-
ing, all at the same time.

GIANT SCORPION

To hit Scatha: 12 To be hit: 10 Hit points: 10
Damage with claws: 1 D6™

Damage with mandibles: 1 D6

Damage with stinger: 2 D6

Scorpion makes one attack of earthtype per round.
If Scatha is killed by the scorpion, turn to section 50.

If Scatha kills the scorpion, turn to section 41.

Scatha tenses to spring past her guard. She knows
timing is critical, too soon and he will grab her, too
slow and it will be a fight. Her sword is gone, and so
is her pouch. Hand-to-hand combat is a slow and
often losing proposition for both parties.

The guard is now moving cautiously into the

Section 81

room, looking around, his sword half-drawn.
Scatha’s mind screams at her body, Now! She slams
the door into the man, sending him reeling into the
doorframe.

She darts past him, the hallway in sight. She feels
the guard’s hand close on her wrist as he jerks her
back into the room. It is now her turn for pain.

She twists her arm free, swinging her arms above
her head, slamming them down onto both sides of
the guard’s neck. He grunts, but he keeps coming.

I must keep crowding him. I can’t let him get out
his sword, Scatha plans. She keeps darting at him,
throwing body punches and groin kicks, trying to
maneuver her way around him and near the open
cell door.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, turn to section 81.

If the total is greater than Scatha’s Dexterity value,
turn to section 82.

*« SB] x

Using the tricks of her arms-master, the warrior-
maid feigns right, then left, then right again. The
big, slow man is half a pace behind her. She has
made an opening! Surprised and delighted, she

Section 82

thinks, It works! It really works! as she darts
through the door and down the hall.

It takes the guard a second to realize what has
happened, but he is soon pounding down the hall
right behind her.

Choosing blindly, she turns down a left-hand
corridor, the sound of the guard shouting for help
too close for comfort. More shouting guards join
the pursuit, but she has lost them for the time
being. She has also lost herself in the tortuous maze
of corridors, and she slows to a cautious walk.
Wherever she is, she is no longer in the city. This
place must be as large as Chatelgard.

Turn to section 77.

* 82 «x

The guard sees her glance at the door, and a grim
grin spreads across his face.

“No way out, little girl,” he spits at her and draws
his sword. “You are lucky the Master wants you
alive, or I would have some fun carving you.” He
strikes the side of her head with the flat of the
blade.

The pain spreads from Scatha’s temple through
her head and neck. She gasps as little golden
sparkles fill the black tunnel forming in front of
her, and she falls, unconscious.

The pain explodes anew as Scatha opens her

Section 82

eyes. There is another guard standing over her and
slapping her awake.

“Leave me alone,” she manages to mumble.

“The girl is awake, Master.”

Scatha rolls over to her side, holding her head.
She is lying on a carpet, the brightly woven flowers
mocking the stark humorlessness of the group of
black-robed men to one side of the room. In their
midst, on a throne of a chair, sits the gaunt Master.

He leans forward, rubbing his chin thoughtfully,
then says mildly, “Come here, girl.”

“No.”

The man laughs. “We shall see.”” He snaps his
fingers at one of his followers, who hands him a
pouch, an old, battered blue leather pouch. The
Master empties the contents into his hand.

He fixes Scatha with a hard, glassy stare. ““Where
did you get this piece of the Black Flame, witch?”

Scatha is silent.

““You will use it for me, one way or another.” He
picks through the other small objects. Never taking
his eyes off her, he lifts out a pearllike Gift of
Hanju.

“What is this, child?” The Master’s voice is
growing perceptibly more chilly.

Scatha won many a penny playing cards with the

lads in the barracks. She has no intention of giving

anything away now. “A pretty. A Midwinter’s Day
gift. I intend to have it set in a ring.” :

“Liar!” The Master’s face is white with rage as he
rises to his feet. “You will obey me.” His voice bites
into her mind as it did at the horse auction. She

Section 83

struggles against it. He is holding the pearl out to
her, shouting over and over again, “You will obey
me. Tell me what this is.”

She fights to avoid the Master’s eyes. If she looks
at him she knows she will be lost to his will. She
stares at the pearl. It seems to glow slightly. She
feels waves of its power. If only she could touch it.
Is she strong enough to reach its power with only
her mind?

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Wisdom/Luck value, turn to section 87.

Ifthe total is greater than Scatha’s Wisdom/Luck
value, turn to section 83.

Scatha feels within herself for that part of her mind —
called tal. She finds it, and with a brief thought
toward Hanju tries to harness her untrained ener-
gies. She stands, hopefully nonchalant, as she seeks
to gain control of the pearl.

Scatha can almost feel it working. Just a little
more. The Master’s eyebrows are knit with effort.
Suddenly he realizes what Scatha is focusing on
and snaps his hand shut around the pearl.

She utters a little cry as her source of power is cut

Section 84

from her. She shakes with effort and despair,
drained of energy.

“We will continue this game later. Next time I
will let Athelstan use his ways awhile first.” The
bearded man at the Master’s right grins without
warmth.

Scatha is again dragged off, this time by three
guards, and thrown back into her cell.

Roll 3 D6.

Again Scatha is depending on the Luck of the Gods.
If her total is the same as or less than her Wisdom/
Luck value, turn to section 78.

If it is greater than her Wisdom/Luck value, turn to
section 98.

* Bq x

Damn it all, she reasons. I just about died getting
out of that place; I’m not going back for anybody!

She steps out into the sunlight and starts down
the path, feeling the warmth and smelling the
musty sweetness of the fields. But she keeps hearing
the cries for help. What if Harold is in there? she
argues with herself. He wouldn’t leave you. On the
other hand, what if this is just another sorcerous..
trick? But the mage is dead and Athelstan hasn’t

Section 84

the brains to set a trap. He is only a bully, not a
sorcerer... I think. . . . He is probably halfway to
the land of the Quais by now.

She has stopped and without thinking turned
back to the hold.

“I cannot leave anyone here to die. Trap or no
trap, I will chance it,” she says firmly, and starts
back up the path. From nearby in the field, a crow
caws triumphantly.

Drawing her sword as she enters, she cautiously
goes down the stairs. There is a row of barred cells,
and in them are prisoners, mostly old women.
When they see her they renew their piteous cries for
help.

“Quiet, quiet. Pl get you out.”

A quick search reveals a great key hanging on a
hook by the door. She opens the cells, and the
broken old people come forth, the weaker helped
by the stronger.

One woman is not so feeble. She is not young,
but she has an ageless strength about her. She
approaches Scatha.

“You are the one in my vision. I am a Baleric
seer. I, too, know of the horn. You are the chosen
hero of the gods.”

Scatha, still weary and wounded, just stares at
the woman. The woman’s melodious voice makes
the quest sound so marvelous, and all it has been is
a horrible test of strength and will. Overwhelmed,
Scatha bursts into tears.

“A lot of good that has done me. I don’t know

Section 84

where I am. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t
know how many days I’ve got to save the whole
damn world. I don’t know if I can even make it.”

The woman reaches out and catches the ex-
hausted girl in her arms. “Child, child. We will
help. The Dark Brethren gathered up every priest
and priestess, every witch and seer they could find.
They feared we would find the horn before they
did. And they searched for you.”

“The mage is dead. I killed him. The Dark
Brethren have fled.”

The seeress looks at Scatha in awe. “‘That I did
not see! Someday when there is time, and the battle
is won, I would dearly love to hear the tale of that,
child. But now you are our last hope.”

The seeress and Scatha, accompanied by the
group of adepts, leave the keep of the Dark Breth-
ren. In a sunny field they give Scatha arcane secrets
from each of their disciplines, which will help her
on her quest. They draw her maps. They tell her
spells, mostly simple ones, for she has not the
control to use the more complex. But the most
important information comes from an old man
who is a star gazer.

“Child, you have but ten cays left, counting
today.”

The seeress draws a bottle from her robes. “Here,
Scatha. I have one last gift for you. I hid this in a
spell of invisibility, and used as little as I could. It
is a bottle of healing waters. Use it sparingly, sects
as you must.”

Scatha thanks them all, and with herr blessings

Section 85

still ringing in her ears she sets out for the border,
and the desert beyond.

The bottle contains five sips of potion, each healing
one hit point. The healers of the adepts have healed
Scatha before she sets out, so you don’t need to use
any yet. Use the potion whenever and wherever you
wish even during a combat, so long as Scatha is
alive. It won't revive her if she is dead. She can drink
it all in one combat round.

Make a chart to keep track of days elapsed.

Go to section 102.

*« 85 x

She climbs the stairs, listening for guards, but she is
alone. The long corridor is lined with doors, proba-
bly an officer’s billet, Scatha guesses, or rooms for
servants. She cautiously tries the latch of the first,
but it is locked. Compulsively she tries each one in
turn, not quite sure what spell is forcing her to
rattle doorknobs when she is an escaped prisoner of
an evil religious cult and on her way to save the
world! The last door is unlocked.

She was right about one thing. It is an ordinary
sleeping chamber as near as she can tell. The high
window is shuttered, and the light from the hallway
is not much help. Whoever lives here is not much of

Section 85

a housekeeper, she thinks, stumbling over the unti-
dy pile of stuff on the floor.

“Ow,” she yips as she rubs her shin. But there is
something familiar about the thing she tripped on.

Oh, Brel bless it. A shield! She claims her booty
and turns to leave the room. But the compulsion
comes on her again and she returns to her rummag-
ing. Maybe there is a pair of trews and I can get out
of this damn skirt, she rationalizes.

There is indeed a pair of trews, and not too large
at that, and a clean shirt. And something else, too
wonderful to be hoped for.

“Mail! A mail hauberk. Oh, bless the gods.”

It’s some soldier’s armor. He must have left it
after a practice or a skirmish. I'll bet there is more,
she thinks, her heart thumping with excitement.
She soon locates a mail coif and steel cap. The arm
and leg armor is, unfortunately, too large for
Scatha, but she does not complain at her luck. A
leather belt, to hitch up the mail and serve as a
sword belt, completes her armor.

She smiles as she imagines the former owner of
her new shield and armor when he finds nothing
but a torn old shift and skirt in his room.

She returns to the corridor. The compulsion to
search is gone and she returns downstairs.

The gods must be working overtime for Scatha. She
now has +3 armor, and a +1 shield. Is there a
sneaking suspicion she may need all the help she can
get? .

Go to section 90.

Section 86

*« 86 x

Another endless, featureless day has _ passed.
Scatha, her lips already cracked, sets off on her
night trek, sighting on the star which the old man
pointed out. Ironically it is the star marking the
two horns in the constellation of the War-Horse.
The night creatures are beginning to emerge from
their sandy burrows for their evening hunt. Scatha
is just as glad she didn’t know how lively the desert
was the first night she slept here, and is glad to be
awake when the wildlife is about. She has also
_ discovered snakes and lizards are good eating, if
you are very careful to avoid the poison glands.
The best discovery came when she speared a
toad, and her sword glowed red and funny all over.
She shook the toad off, only to discover that no
scavenger would get near it. After that, she used her
spell sword to test food.
Near her, the sand begins to shift and stir, and
she poises to spear the animal on tonight’s menu. If
she nails it just before it is out, she has the best
chance. On the open sand these things are damna-
bly fast. A dark speck gives her the target, and she
thrusts down with her spell sword, but it skips
harmlessly off a hard shell. And it begins to glow
red and funny all over.
All at once, with horrifying speed, the whole area
is quaking and churning as a pit forms around the
emerging beast. Scatha scrambles back, barely

Section 87

keeping ahead of the death trap which ripples out
toward her.

The giant arches and twists itself to the surface.
Oh, dear gods! A scorpion! she gasps. The thing
must be forty feet long, and it is angry.

If Scatha decides to run away, turn to section 47.

If Scatha decides to fight it out, turn to section 79.

Scatha feels within herself for that part of her mind
called tal. She finds it, and with a brief thought
toward Hanju tries to harness her untrained ener-
gies. She stands, hopefully nonchalant, as she seeks
to gain control of the pearl.

Scatha can almost feel it working. Just a little
more. The Master’s eyebrows are knit with effort.
Suddenly he realizes what Scatha is focusing on
and snaps his hand shut around the pearl.

But it is too late for him. The golden rays escape
from between his fingers.

The Master’s face is twisting in pain. He can
resist the searing object in his hand no longer. With
a scream of rage he flings the Gift of Hanju to the
ground. It continues to glow as Scatha crawls over
to it and plucks it from the rug, holding it gingerly
between her thumb and forefinger.

Section 87

The Master, still grimacing with pain and rage,
stands frozen to the spot. None of his minions are
moving. Some of them are staring at their Master
in fear. The rest are staring at Scatha with awe.

Holding the pearl before her like a talisman, she
scoops up her other possessions and stuffs them
into her pouch and slowly backs out of the room,
holding back the black horde with the glowing
pearl.

Once out of the room she slams the door shut
and starts to run down the hall. She wonders, as she
chooses corridors at random, how long the spell
will last. When she puts the pearl away, she won-
ders, Does that count as using the gift? Oh, dear
Mohandru, or rather dear, dear Hanju. What if I
pull it out again and it doesn’t work?

Scatha comes to a staircase, hesitating while she
decides if she should go up or down. She has no
idea where she is, or even if she is above or below
ground level. Shrugging off her indecision, she
plunges down the stairs. It is dark in the stairwell,
and dangerously hard to see the steps. Scatha is
about to go back and get a torch from the hallway
above when she sees the bluish glow of daylight,
and she feels a breeze of fresh air. Perhaps there is a
way out.

It’s only a matter of time before they find me, she
thinks. I have got to get out. Oh, Mohandru, how-
long do I have left before the conjunction?

At the bottom of the stairs there is but one
corridor, and the solution to the mystery of the ©
light and the breeze. There are narrow slits in the

Section 87

walls, and weak daylight filters in. At the end is a
heavy iron-bound door. No way out—and a fine
place to be trapped. Thinking of the guards who
just may be on her trail, Scatha tries desperately to
reach the windows. But they’re too high, and the
walls too smooth to gain purchase.

Cautiously, the trapped girl approaches the door,
the only way out. She puts her ear to it and listens,
but hears no sound. Experimentally she pulls down
on the latch and is astonished to find it unlocked.

Her eyes adjust to the dark room, illuminated
only by the faint light of the corridor. Inside lie
piles of chests, moldering rolls of carpets, and the
miscellaneous storage of years of accumulated
booty and personal wealth. Everything is covered
in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.

Something catches her eye, something wonder-
ful. It is the hilt of a broadsword. Her heart is
thumping as she pulls and strains to unearth it
from the jumble of junk which buries it.

Oh, please, gods, let it be unbroken, she prays. It
is. She hefts it. It is heavy, but the balance is
beautiful. She whoops with pleasure as she swings”
it; with a sword in her hand she feels whole again.

There is nothing more here for her. She goes back
to the staircase and begins to climb.

Congratulations! Your hero has just obtained a +2
sword.

Proceed to section 89.

Section 88

* BS x

Scatha is now enough of a veteran that she knows
that this could be a trap, but she also knows she
cannot leave anyone in this godforsaken place. And
she has killed the Master of this place. The mind is
as much a weapon as the body; swiftly evaluating
Athelstan, she is almost confident that he hasn’t the
brains to set a trap. Without a leader he is probably
halfway across the countryside by now, anyway.
She will chance it.

Drawing her sword, she cautiously goes down the
Stairs. There is a row of barred cells, imprisoning
mostly old women. When they see her they renew
their piteous cries for help. :

“Quiet, quiet. I'll get you out.”

A quick search reveals a great key hanging on a
hook by the door. She opens the cells, and the
broken people come forth, the weaker helped by the
stronger.

One woman is not so feeble. She is not young,
but she has an ageless strength about her. She
approaches Scatha.

‘““You are the one in my vision. I am a Baleric
Seer. I, too, know of the horn. You are the chosen
hero of the gods.”

Scatha, still weary and wounded, just stares at —

the woman. The woman’s melodious voice makes
the quest sound so marvelous, and all it has been is

Section 88

a horrible test of strength and will. Overwhelmed,
Scatha bursts into tears.

“A lot of good that has done me. I don’t know
where I am. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t
know how many days I’ve got to save the whole
damn world. I don’t know if I can even make it.”

The woman reaches out and catches the ex-
hausted girl in her arms. “Child, child. We will
help. The Dark Brethren gathered up every priest
and priestess, every witch and seer they could find.
They feared we would find the horn before they
did. And they searched for you.”

“The mage is dead. I killed him. The Dark
Brethren have fled.”

The seeress looks at Scatha in awe. “That I did
not see! Someday when there is time, and the battle
is won, I would dearly love to hear the tale of that,
child. But now you are our last hope.”

The seeress and Scatha, accompanied by the
group of adepts, leave the keep of the Dark Breth-
ren. In a sunny field they give Scatha arcane secrets
from each of their disciplines, which will help her
on her quest. They draw her maps. They tell her
spells, mostly simple ones, for she has not the
control to use the more complex. But the most
important information comes from an old man
who Is a Star gazer.

“Child, you have but ten days left, counting
today.”

The seeress draws a bottle from her robes. “Here,
Scatha. I have one last gift for you. I hid this in a
spell of invisibility, and used as little as I could. It

Section 89

is a bottle of healing waters. Use it sparingly, only
as you must.”

Scatha thanks them all, and with their blessings
still ringing in her ears she sets out for the border,
and the desert beyond.

The bottle contains five sips of potion, each healing
one hit point. The healers of the adepts have healed
Scatha before she sets out, so you don’t need to use |
any yet. Use the potion whenever and wherever you
wish, even. during a combat, so long as Scatha is
alive. It won't revive her if she is dead.

Make a chart to keep track of days elapsed. Go to
section 102.

She climbs the stairs, listening for guards, but she is
alone. The long corridor is lined with doors, proba-
bly an officer’s billet, Scatha guesses, or rooms for
servants. She cautiously tries the latch of the first,
but it is locked. Compulsively she tries each one in
turn, not quite sure what spell is forcing her to

rattle doorknobs when she is an escaped prisoner of — ——
an evil religious cult and on her way to save the 222

world! The last door is unlocked.
She was right about one thing. It is an ordinary
sleeping chamber as near as she can tell. The high

Section 89

window is shuttered, and the light from the hallway
is not much help. Whoever lives here is not much of
a housekeeper, she thinks, stumbling over the unti-
dy pile of stuff on the floor.

“Ow,” she yips as she rubs her shin. But there is
something familiar about the thing she tripped on.

Oh, Brel bless it. A shield! She claims her booty
and turns to leave the room. But the compulsion
comes on her again and she returns to her rummag-
ing. Maybe there is a pair of trews and I can get out
of this damn skirt, she rationalizes.

There is indeed a pair of trews, and not too large
at that, and a clean shirt. And something else, too
wonderful to be hoped for.

“Mail! A mail hauberk. Oh, bless the gods.”

It’s some soldier’s armor. He must have left it
after a practice or a skirmish. I'll bet there is more,
she thinks, her heart thumping with excitement.
She soon locates a mail coif and steel cap. The arm
and leg armor is, unfortunately, too large for
Scatha, but she does not complain at her luck. A
leather belt, to hitch up the mail and serve as a
sword belt, completes her armor.

She smiles as she imagines the former owner of
her new shield and armor when he finds nothing
but a torn old shift and skirt in his room.

She returns to the corridor. The compulsion to
search is gone and she returns downstairs.

The gods must be working overtime for Scatha. She
now has +3 armor, and a +1 shield. Is there a

Section 90

sneaking suspicion she may need all the help she can
get?

Go to section 91.

*« OO x

Now what! she thinks as she surveys the now
familiar corridor. I guess my only choice is to go
back the way I came.

She starts back down the hall, shield up and
sword in hand. She hears shouts ahead.

Damn! But there is nowhere else to go, except
maybe dash up or down the stairs and hide until
she is cornered like a rat. Resolute, she throws her
shoulders back and stalks down the corridor.

Maybe she’s overconfident or just tired, but her
fighter’s awareness is ebbing. Rounding a corner,
she is confronted by a dozen or so armed men,
jogging at her in a wedge formation; one man on
point, two behind, and columns of three following.

Classic, she evaluates. And invincible! There is
no time to run, no place to run. This is it. She
readies to receive the charge.

But a familiar unctuous voice calls out, “Halt.”

The unit stops, not losing their formation. = a

well-trained band of soldiers. Too bad.

- The Master of the Dark Brethren winds his = a

through his soldiers, sinuous as a serpent. He
points his finger at her. “Come to me, child.”

Section 91

She smacks the flat of her blade on the face of her
shield with a satisfying ring, the traditional gesture
of challenge. His spell is not working this time.

She raises the sword. Hanju’s puppies! It’s glow-
ing. Her fear vanishes. It’s a spell sword. Maybe
this is not so hopeless after all.

“Attack her,’ the Master screams, not able to
bear defiance.

The men obey, but slowly.

“Are you afraid of me now, Oh great magical
Master?” Scatha taunts. She points the sword tip at
him. A great blue lightning bolt streams out and
knocks him clean off his feet. Even Scatha is
impressed.

The soldiers back off. A small object flies from
the magician’s hand and lands on the floor halfway
between them.

Scatha recognizes it. My pouch! She darts up,
grabs it, and retreats a few paces.

Turn to section 92.

Now what! she thinks as she surveys the now
familiar corridor. I guess my only choice is to go
back the way I came.
_ She starts back down the hall, shield up and
sword in hand. She hears shouts ahead.

Damn! But there is nowhere else to go, except

Section 91

maybe dash up or down the stairs and hide until
she is cornered like a rat. Resolute, she throws her
shoulders back and stalks down the corridor.

Maybe she’s overconfident or just tired, but her
fighter’s awareness is ebbing. Rounding a corner
she is confronted by a dozen or so armed men
jogging at her in a wedge formation; one man on
point, two behind, and columns of three following.

Classic, she evaluates. And invincible! There is
no time to run, no place to run. This is it. She
readies to receive the charge.

But a familiar unctuous voice calls out, “Halt.”

The unit stops, not losing their formation. A
well-trained band of soldiers. Too bad.

The Master of the Dark Brethren winds his way
through his soldiers, sinuous as a serpent. He
points his finger at her. ““Come to me, child.”

She smacks the flat of her blade on the face of her
shield with a satisfying ring, the traditional gesture
of challenge. His spell is not working this time.

She raises the sword. Hanju’s puppies! It’s glow-
ing. Her fear vanishes. It’s a spell sword! Maybe
this is not so hopeless after all.

“Attack her,” the Master screams, not able to
bear defiance.

The men obey, but slowly.

“Are you afraid of me now, O great magical
Master?” Scatha taunts. She points the sword tip at —
him. A great blue lightning bolt streams out and
knocks him clean off his feet. Even Scatha is
impressed.

The eondiers back off. She hears a anal thud at

Section 92

her feet. She darts a glance down. Damn, why now!
she grumbles. She had tucked her precious pouch
under her new belt, and it has slipped out and
fallen to the ground. She carefully stoops down,
never lowering her guard, and scoops it up into her
sword hand.

Turn to section 92,

« QOD «x

The mage is screaming at his men as he clambers to
his feet. ““Cowards! [ll turn you all into slugs.”

He turns his full attention to Scatha. “You think
that toy will help you? Do you want to see my
power, little one? Do you? Then see my power!”

He stretches up his arms, his cloak billowing out
dramatically around him. Before the astonished
and terrified troops, he grows larger and larger,
changing shape as he grows. The hawklike nose is
now a black horny beak. His sparse, stringy hair
turns to thin spikes. His hands have become claws
and the cloak giant wings. The thing the mage has
become fills the corridor.

The black demon hisses down at her, spewing
sickly yellow slime which steams and bubbles as it
lands on her shield.

The pouch is still stuffed in her sword hand. She
reaches down to tuck it into her belt. Wait! I still
have the Gift of Hanju, she realizes. She gropes at

Section 93

the pouch to feel the contents through the leather.
The Memory Stone is there, and so is a small round
object.

But can I trust it? The more she has thought back
to her encounter with the god, the more enigmatic
his motives become. She has to decide what to
do—and now!

If she decides to use the Gift of Hanju, turn to
section 94.

If she decides not to use the gift, turn to section 93.

* G3 x
The demon’s laugh has turned to shrieks so inhu-
man that she can barely remember that this was a
man only moments before. The creature swoops
down on her.

He crashes against her shield, sending her sprawl-
ing to the ground; the pain in her shield arm is
almost unbearable. Another like that and she will
not even be able to lift the shield, assuming that
there will be anything left of it to lift.

The creature rises to swoop again. This time she
slashes at it with her glowing sword.

MAGE DEMON

To hit Scatha: II To be hit: 10 Hit points: 10
Damage with claws: 2 D6

Damage with sword: 2 D6

Section 94

If Scatha succumbs to the mage demon, turn to
section 26. .

If she kills the demon, turn to section 99.

« QQ * 2

She fumbles to draw out the pearl and holds it aloft,
clutched in her thumb and forefinger. She presses
against the hilt of the spell sword. The sword glows.
The pearl glows. She cries out, “In the name of
Hanju, last of the Lost Gods, Ancient of Ancients,
Lord of the Mountains, begone.” She throws the
pearl at the demon.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Wisdom/Luck value, turn to section 96.

If it is greater than Scatha’s Wisdom/Luck value,
turn to section 97.

Section 96

x 95 «x

The pearl spins in the air like a miniature sun,
falling to the ground . . . and fizzles out. Both sides
stand stunned for a moment. The demon emits a
blood-freezing laugh.

Scatha stuffs the pouch back into her belt, sighs,
and braces herself for the attack to come.

Turn to section 93.

« 96 *

The pearl spins in the air, glowing like a miniature
sun. It pulses as its brightness increases.

Oh, my gods. Scatha throws herself to the
ground, curling up into the smallest ball she can,
covering herself with her shield.

The pearl explodes. She can feel the searing heat
around her, but it doesn’t seem to cause her pain.

The screams of fear and anguish are shattering.
She feels lumps of something hit her shield, and she
can hear wet plops all around her. She does not
need to look. The demon, and probably all of his
men who had not fled, are raining around her in
disgustingly bloody gouts.

When all is quiet again, she gets up, shaking the
bits and pieces from her shield. Very quickly she

Section 98

leaves this place of horror, stepping carefully to
avoid that which she barely can stand to look at:

Turn to section 101.

x OF *

One can never tell what dealing with the gods will
bring.

Roll for Wisdom/Luck again. Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Wisdom/Luck value, turn to section 95.

If it is greater than Scatha’s Wisdom/Luck value,
turn to section 100.

(Isn’t dealing with Hanju FUN?)

* 98 «
The days have faded into night, the nights to day.
All Scatha could do she has done. But there is no
escape from time. The conjunction is at hand. She

has failed.

Turn to section 29.

Section 99

x QD «x

The thing is tiring itself out, slamming against the
roof and walls, doing itself as much damage as
Scatha is. But Scatha is tiring fast. She is still on her
feet, but barely standing. The demon again swoops
at her, its bat wings throwing up turbulent clouds of
dust as it flies.

Scatha braces herself against the wall, and the
sword against her tensed stomach muscles. The
creature slams into her, and the sword. As the point
drives into its belly, Scatha twists the blade and
draws a cut across the creature’s gut. It falls at her
feet, spurting out its caustic yellow blood.

She steps back from the spreading pool of slime
and spins to meet the attack of the demon’s follow-
ers.

But she is alone. They have fled.

Turn to section 101.

Section 100

The pearl spins in the air like a miniature sun. The
demon twists its serpentine neck and watches it
with glowing beady eyes. Then it screams a scream
that sounds like “Mine.” It snaps the holy object
from the air with its beak.

Now the monster begins to glow.

‘“‘Damn you, Hanju,” Scatha screams in frustra-
tion, but the god in his mountain does not hear her.
He dreams of a wonderful serpentine body so like
his own, and he dances and writhes in madness and
fury, snapping and biting at the little lives around
him, blind to Scatha and her prayers.

“Pm not giving up. Do you hear? I’m not giving
up.”

The demon’s laugh has turned to shrieks so
inhuman that she can barely remember that this
was a man only moments before. The creature
swoops down on her.

He crashes against her shield, sending her sprawl-
ing to the ground; the pain in her shield arm is
almost unbearable. Another like that and she will
not even be able to lift the shield, assuming that
there will be anything left of it to lift.

The creature rises to swoop again. This time she
slashes at it with her glowing sword.

MAGE DEMON
Combat proceeds as follows. Hanju has a very short

Section 101

attention span, so that this increase in the demon’s
power only lasts two rolls.

To hit Scatha: 6 To be hit: 18 Hit points: 20
-Damage with claws: 3 D6

Damage with teeth: 3 D6

After two exchanges the values are:

To hit Scatha: 11 To be hit: 10 Hit points: 10 (If
the demon has already received 10 hit points from
the previous two rounds, he will die from the next
blow, if Scatha lives to deliver it.)

Damage with claws: I D6

Damage with teeth: I D6

If Scatha dies, turn to section 29.

If Scatha kills the mage demon, turn to section 99.

* 101 «

Scatha wanders in the maze that is the keep,
looking for a way out. She has found an outside
wall with a window she can reach, and this has
helped her to orient herself. Finally she reaches the
ground floor, and the main entrance. Ignoring

exhaustion and pain, she throws herself against the —__

front door with the enthusiasm of a maid embrac-
ing a lover.

A sight dearer than gold greets hee Freedom!

Rolling fields rich with ripe grain lie before her.

Section 102

Taking a deep breath, exalting in her victory, she is
about to finally leave this hell-hole when she hears a
plaintive wail, the voice of a woman. It is soon
joined by other voices, echoing up from a stairwell.
She hesitates.

If Scatha decides to go back for the prisoners, turn to
section 88.

If Scatha decides to leave hold, turn to section
84, ;

* 102 +

Scatha pushes on with her newly healed body and
renewed spirit, but even the blessings of so many
holy folk have their limits, and it’s finally time to
make camp.

She crossed the border just after nightfall.
Crunching along in the still-warm sand by the light
of the Bright One for some hours, Scatha is sur-
prised to discover the desert gets cold at night. She
curls up on the ground, praying to every god she
can readily think of that there are no dangerous
creatures nestled below her, nor hidden dangers of
shifting sand. She falls asleep, painfully aware of
how little she knows of the waste.

She awakens as the sun’s light just begins to turn
the night sky to a dove gray. She takes a sip of the
water she was given, and eats a little. She draws out

Section 102

her pouch and knife and withdraws a stick, the
newest of her treasures. On it are ten scratches for
the ten days until the conjunction. She scratches
out the first one. _

- As she puts back the stick, she feels the Memory
Stone. She realizes with a twinge of guilt how little
she has thought of Harold since she was captured,
but now she misses him terribly.

She looks into the stone and calls softly, “Harold,
Harold. Are you still alive? Did I only bring you to
an early grave?” But the stone reveals nothing. She
puts it and her memories away. The desert is no
place to waste tears on anyone.

She sights on the sun, as she was taught by one of
the wise old folk, and starts what she hopes will be
the last trek of this quest.

She slogs along in the sand. She soon learns
where the sand is soft and shifting, and where there
is a crust to make her journey quicker. But there are
no easy places. At midday the sun scorches her. The
mail is searing hot to the touch. She discovers that
she can use a spare shirt from the pack of oddments
the rescued wise ones collected for her to cover her
iron helm, and the shield strapped to her back is
used as a sunshade.

She wishes she knew more about the movement
of the moons and the stars. If she did, she could
plan to travel totally by moonlight and rest during
the day. But she does not, and she is afraid to risk
any delay. So, except for the hottest part of the day
when she hides under her shield and sleeps, she
‘pushes on as long after dark as she can. Another
day passes.

Section 103

Remove a total of two days from your chart.

Turn to section 86.

x 103 +

Scatha is groggy when she wakes up. She digs her
way out of the drifting sand which has almost
buried her. Her gratitude at being alive is mini-
mized as she sits up to the throbbing of a dehydra-
tion headache that would kill Brel. Her sword is
still next to her, but her pack has been found and
looted by some rodent’s sharp teeth. This reminds
her of the scorpion, and she shudders. But one
waterbag is intact, the almost empty one. She
finishes the last of the precious liquid, figuring that
it will not do her any good sitting in the bag.

She does find the stick with the scratches, but she
has no idea how long she has been unconscious.
Angry and frustrated, she flings the thing away. She
sights on the midafternoon sun, and decides to try
to make up some distance by daylight.

She dutifully slogs along for the next hour or two
until a dust cloud ahead draws her attention.
Climbing up a sand dune, she tries to make out
what lies below. It is a caravan or Asheeran raiders?
She needs water and food, but is it worth the risk of
capture?

The cloud is thick, and not moving. The wind
shifts and she hears familiar clangs and shouts.
There is a battle going on. Now she can make out

Section 104

men fighting and frightened animals packed with
goods. A caravan is under attack.

If Scatha decides to help the caravan, turn to section
104. :

If she decides to wait it out and sneak away, turn to
section 105.

Scatha stumbles down the hill of sand, rolling part
way, her feet threatening to slip out from under her
at every step. This is slower then pushing through a
snowbank, she thinks in frustration as she slips and
slides toward those under siege.

Finally in range, she cuts down an Asheeran
from behind, saving a caravan guard from the
wicked curved blade aimed at his neck.

Her battle senses sharpened by experience, the
swordswoman shield-blocks a blow which she sees
only as a flash of light to her left, sword-blocking
another from the right, shattering the sharp but
fragile Asheeran blade with her sturdier broad-
sword. She takes a position back-to-back with a
guard from the caravan, and they withstand the
waves of Asheerans, terrible with their sun-bright —
blades, and fierce black eyes staring out from gaudy.

headgear. Scatha and her companions cannot hold — x

out long against these fierce tribesmen, their disre-

Section 104

gard for the searing dry wind proclaiming their
mastery of the desert and any who dare venture
into their realm.

It is soon over. The caravan is overrun, and those
who are not wounded are captured and bound. The
wounded are not so lucky. The desert is unyielding
to the weak.

“Ho! This one is a woman!” an Asheeran calls
out to his kinsmen, disarming Scatha and tying her
hands behind her.

“Leave her alone,” cries out a very familiar
voice.

“Harold!” Scatha screams.

One of the capt6rs comes to where Scatha is held,
tethered by a rope like an animal.

“Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her,” Harold pleads
until a blow to the head silences him, and he falls to
the sand. °

““What have you done to him.” Scatha screams.

The man towers over her, pinching her face in his
massive hand. “Not half of what we will do with
you if you are not quiet.” He roughly jerks her by
the rope tether. “She is mine for the time being.”

- He turns her over to a boy, obviously his servant.
He orders that she be taken to his tent to be washed
and dressed by his women.

Roll 1 D6 to determine how many hit points of
damage Scatha received before capture.

Go to section 106.

Section 105

* 105 «

Scatha lies hidden, watching helplessly as the cara-
van is overrun by the Asheeran tribesmen.

I can’t afford the risk, she thinks to herself over
and over again. If I fail in this quest what good will
saving a few lives do? But it doesn’t help much as
she lies bleakly watching the carnage. Soon it is
over. The healthy are tied together for the march to
the slave block. The wounded are not so lucky.

As the prisoners are led away behind the riders,
Scatha notices one—a large, burly lad of perhaps
eighteen summers with ash-blond hair which falls
carelessly over his eyes.

“Harold!” she gasps. “Oh, gods, how cruel you
are!’ she exclaims, her resolve to be sensible and
loyal to her quest melting like snow in the desert
sun.

Torn by conflicting loyalties, she knows she can-
not abandon him, but she also knows she cannot
give up her holy duty, either.

Perhaps if I follow them . . . they are headed the
way I need to go. Please, Mohandru, please, if I
have a chance to free him, and the others without
failing . . . Oh, please, she prays.

She follows them to their encampment around a= -

desert well and hides in the nearby rocky outcrop-

ping.

Section 105

At nightfall she crawls to the edge of the camp
where the slaves have been penned. They do not
seem to be guarded. Neither are the horses. If I can
free them, Harold and'I could get away on horse-
back in the confusion, she plans.

She slips down to the fence around the pen when
the big mistake in this plan hits her: The horses, oh,
gods, the horses. They are the horned ones, the
children of the god whose horn is the cause of all
this trouble, horses like Turin, the lady Rifkind’s
mount. Now she remembers what she had heard
about Turin. These horses speak to their riders’
minds. That’s why there were no guards. They
guard themselves. She turns to run, but it is too
late. The camp is filled with shouts and pounding
feet as the riders run from their tents toward the
coral, summoned from their sleep by the psychic
warnings of their steeds.

With a calm which even surprises Scatha, she
turns and runs toward the protection of the rocks
muttering, “Oh, well. Nothing lost in trying.”

Subtract one day from your chart.
- Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Dexterity value, go to section 111.

If the total is greater than her Dexterity value, turn
to section 112.

Section 106

For most of the next day Scatha sits tied to a tent
post. The inactivity gnaws on her nerves; her imagi-
nation runs rampant. Finally she is to be taken
before the headman of her captors.

“Don’t speak unless you are spoken to,” one of
his wives tells her with a slap. ““And remember to
keep your eyes lowered,” she adds with another
blow.

Scatha is led into the presence of the headman.
He is seated on pillows, picking at a tray of dried
fruits.

She stands for a long while, but he ignores
her. .

Finally she cannot stand it any longer. She bursts
out, “Lord, forgive me. They told me to be silent,
but you must listen to me.” She has gone through
this speech in her mind so many times, but now in
this man’s presence she is struggling for the right
words.

He raises his eyes, scowling at her.

She falls to her knees. “This is a holy thing I
speak of. You are in danger. We are all in danger.
Please hear me.”

Subtract one day from your chart.

If Scatha’s time has run out, turn to section 114.

Section 107
If Scatha still has time on her side, roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Charisma value, turn to section 107.

If the total is greater than her Charisma value, turn
to section 108.

* 107 «

The Asheeran lord says nothing, but stares at her as
her words peter out and she stares helplessly at
him.

He claps his hands three times and a slave
woman glides out from behind a curtain.

“Bring Arlis,” he commands. He resumes his
meal, ignoring her again.

Scatha is beside herself with impatience. She
uses all her strength of will to control herself.

Soon the slave returns, followed by an old
woman. This woman’s face isnot covered as the
other women’s are, and her stride is bold and
self-confident. Scatha stares into the woman’s
eyes. They are deep wells. She has seen eyes like
this before. The Master of the Dark Brethren had
such eyes. Her heart sinks. But the seeress who
I saved had eyes like this, too. So did some of
the holy priests and priestesses, she argues with her-
self.

Section 107

“Arlis,” the lord begins, surprisingly polite, “‘if
you would, I ask you to search this woman’s soul.
She claims to have a holy purpose. There is some-
thing about her which is not ordinary. I will have
no sorceresses in my camp, but neither will I
oppose the purposes of the gods.”

The woman almost rudely grunts at him, but
picks and pokes through the many bags and
pouches which she has hanging from her belt. She
throws a handful of dried roots in the smallest
brazier in the tent, sending out billows of fragrant
smoke, and then chants an incantation.

The lord is looking less and less at ease. Almost
as if to defy the priestess’s power he interrupts
her spell, reaching under his pillow and drawing
out Scatha’s blue pouch. “We found this with
her

The old woman contorts her face as if she will
shriek at him for the interruption, but just as
suddenly turns her attention to the pouch, snatch-
ing it from him and pouring out its contents into
her hand. She snatches up the Memory Stone and
holds it out to Scatha. It glows softly.

“‘Where did you get this?”

“It is mine, by right of birth. Well, sort of. It was
the possession of one of my kinswomen. I am of the
- Quais people. It is a stone of the Well of the Black

~ Flame.” Scatha tells them of her quest.

The old woman hands the stone to Scatha with a
gentle reverence and turns on the lord, shrieking at
him.

““You do whatever she tells you to.”

Section 108

Scatha is stunned at the sudden change of events.
She fights back tears of relief.

“T will aid you,” the Asheeran lord declares.
Swiftly he orders her weapons returned. Perhaps to
make amends, he sends six of his finest young
warriors to accompany her. Arlis will also go with
her, as a healer as well as a seer.

Scatha asks with fear, ““The young, man captured
with me, does he still live?”

She is taken to where the prisoners have been
secured prior to their sale as slaves. Harold is
among them. He is freed, along with another
three of the young soldiers, making up a unit of
ten.

Turn to section 113.

* 108 «

“Will you not obey me? I will have you beaten and
beaten again until you do,” the Asheeran lord
shouts, his face red with rage. The veins in his neck
stand out. He claps his hands and guards appear.

“Take her back.”

They drag her back to the tent, heedless of her
pleas that they just listen.

No one notices minutes later when a slave girl
slips from the tent and runs out into the desert
toward the outcropping of rocks nearby.

Section 109
Subtract one day.

If ten days have now elapsed, turn to section 98.

If there still is time lefi, turn to section 109.

*« JOOS «x

Scatha shouts herself hoarse trying to get anybody
in the camp to listen. She continues for hours
heedless of the savage blows the other women rain
on her at the command of their annoyed master.
Finally, too exhausted to resist, she is tethered to a
tent pole. Alone; crying with anger, Scatha strug-
gles to free herself, but the massive center pole of
the large tent is designed to withstand sandstorms
and the girl cannot budge it.

Hours later Scatha is awakened from a troubled
sleep by a rustling sound. She sees a crack of
moonlight spill in under the hem of the tent.
Someone is sneaking in. She waits, expectantly, to
see if she is saved, or if the master has sent an
assassin to finish her.

An old woman crawls in and stands over her,
staring at her.

The woman’s face is not covered as the other
women’s are, and her stride is bold and self-
confident. Scatha stares into the woman’s eyes.
They are deep wells. She has seen eyes like this

~~

Section 109

before. The Master of the Dark Brethren had eyes
like this. Her heart sinks. But the seeress who I
saved had eyes like this. So did some of the holy
priests and priestess, she argues with herself.

“J am Arlis, seer and healer of these ignorant
people,” the old woman says with a toss of her
head. She whisks a pouch out of her belt, an old
blue leather pouch, and as quickly empties the
contents into her hand.

“‘Where did you get this?” she demands of Scatha
sharply. :

The Memory Stone glows in Arlis’s hand.

“Where did you get it,” Scatha shouts back,
straining at her bonds.

“No matter,” the woman answers more mildly,
“‘but if you wish to know, I have a student who is a
slave here. She brought it to me. But now answer
my question.”

“It is mine, by right of birth. Well, sort of. It was
the possession of one of my kinswomen. I am of the
Quais people. It is a stone of the Well of the Black
Flame.”

She tells her tale once more. The woman stares at
her again. Then she shakes her head and grunts
once or twice.

Finally she gets up and walks to where Scatha is
tied and adeptly draws a knife.

Oh, gods. All this, to end here? Scatha moans,
bracing for the final agony. The woman stoops
swiftly, knife held out. Scatha can’t help herself.
She flinches, squeezing shut her eyes. Make me

Section 109

brave, Mohandru. Don’t let me scream, Scatha
prays.

The woman cuts Scatha’s bonds and hands her
the Memory Stone reverently; next she gives her
the old blue pouch, its contents intact.

“T will help you. There are some young warriors
who are loyal to me, for reasons which concern our
gods but not you. We will find your armor and
weapons and be on our way. I know the place you
seek.”

“The young man who was captured with me,
does he still live?”

“If he does he awaits sale. We will go and see.”

Scatha crawls out of the tent behind the old
woman, and they silently make their way to a
holding pen. Harold is there with three other young
men, the prisoners who were healthy enough to
fetch a good price. They are swiftly freed and
accompany the woman to the cave which is her
home, in the rocks near the encampment. The slave
girl is sent to summon the six warriors of whom
Arlis spoke, and to steal the weapons and armor
which Scatha, Harold, and the others will need.

_ Turn to section 113.

Section 110

« 110 «

“This is the place,” Arlis says, pointing her staff at
the ruins below them. ““We will camp here. There is
a well there,” she adds, jabbing her staff at a patch
of desert, “‘to which I have rights from my mother’s
family.”

They eat and drink, using this quiet time to
check and recheck their weapons before the final
assault.

They plan their attack. They see no one outside
the ruins. Either they have beat Drukor to the
place, in which case all they need to do is hold it
until after the conjunction, or he is within. They
should strike at once.

It is never easy to meld a group of soldiers into a
fighting unit of one mind, yet Scatha knows that
this is what must be done if they are to be victori-
ous. She coaxes, cajoles, and threatens, finally
convincing the free-spirited Asheeran warriors to
adopt the Dro Darian’s wedge formation. She leads
her ragtag band down from the sheltering rocks
across the desert floor to stand before the gates of
an ancient temple.

“Prepare to charge. . . . Charge!”’ she shouts.

The unit breaks into a run. Abruptly men fall to
the ground in a disordered heap, the back lines
overrunning the front line, rebounding off each
other with undignified grunts.

“Fall back. Regroup,” Scatha commands.

Section 110

They mill around, about twenty yards from the
temple while Scatha, Harold, and Arlis confer.

‘‘He has sealed the place with magic. I will try to
break this wall,” Arlis declares. She falls to her
knees in a trance, moaning and mumbling, jabbing
at the air with her staff.

It seems like hours before Arlis rises again, gaunt
and shaken. Without a word she walks to the
temple, her arm stretched out before her. She, too,
stops abruptly and returns.

“There is nothing I can do.”

“Nothing you can do!” Scatha is screaming at
her. “I’m not giving up now.”

“No. Listen, child. We can either wear ourselves
out and use every piece of magic you have in that
pouch of yours, and beg every last favor of every
god or goddess either of us serve, or we can wait.
With the conjunction will come a light storm. I had
hoped to avoid this, for light storms are the most
terrible curse of this place. But it will disrupt the
energy barrier. I’m sure of it. What I am not sure of
is if we can attack in that time of madness.”

They return to their camp by the well to wait.

The uneasiness of waiting gives way to a more
sinister sense of apprehension. Without warning
the air grows unnaturally still and brooding, and
the sky turns blood red. The heroes watch uneasily
as the Dark One slides its shadow across the Bright
One, even as the Bright One, turning a bruised
purple, caresses the sun, which bursts into blinding
brightness at the celestial kiss of death. It in turn
fades to gray as it yields ‘in subjugation.

An eerie wind blows up, not blowing with the

Section 110

clean violence of a sandstorm, but with the insis-
tent intensity of a bully’s assault.

One of the Asheeran warriors throws his hands
to his head and begins to scream. “Stop them, they
are crawling on me,” he moans, writhing on the
sand, scratching and tearing at invisible vermin.

“Stop it.” Arlis’s voice cuts through the madness,
and her touch banishes the nightmare vision.

“We must move now,” she whispers in Scatha’s
ear, but Scatha is already jumping to her feet and
issuing orders.

They dogtrot to the barrier; only Arlis’s scream-
ing threats keep them sane.

Scatha sees the sand turn the most beautiful blue,
with highlights of ruby and gold. It swirls around
her ankles, becoming living tendrils. A voice in her
head calls seductively to her to lie down and sleep,
sleep forever.

With one part of her brain she can see her men
fighting visions of their own, but still the warriors
stay together. They are at the barrier, and then
without stopping they pass through it. They enter
the ancient holy place.

In a huge chamber, by an ancient altar placed
precisely in the middle of the room, stands a robed
wizard, the great horn at his lips.

“Stop him!” Scatha shouts.

In a mad rush they converge on him. He pauses,
turns, and almost nonchalantly sets down the horn
on the altar and reaches for his staff.

Great words of power issue from his mouth, and
a beam of blinding light blasts from the jeweled tip

Section 110

of his staff. Arlis shouts back an incantation, but
her words sound weak in the still-reverberating
chamber.

As they watch in horror, an army of monstrous
demons materializes from the unholy noise.

Scatha stands mesmerized, then shakes her head
to break the spell of fascination.

“Attack! Kill them. They can be killed,” she
screams, near hysteria. Her voice breaks the spell
for her men, and the unit attacks. Drukor once
again lifts the horn to his lips. Scatha rushes toward
him, cutting down noisome creatures that block her
way almost without thought. She can almost see the
first burst of sound streaming from the great curved
horn. A cacophony blares out; the ground begins to
roil under her feet, sending her reeling back. The
floor of the chamber cracks and splits, spitting up
clouds of noxious gases and revealing a churning
hell of molten living rock.

She looks in horror as the spewing, burning rock
manifests itself into huge, horrible demon gods,
creatures whose burning eyes and evil purpose
dwarf the creatures which Drukor conjured, de-
mons rising on wings, crawling on clawed feet,

_ Shrieking, slobbering venom, tumbling out of the

_ red-black ooze which rolls out of the chasm.

In the midst of this chaos stands Drukor, his
arms thrown back in triumph, his face twisted in
fiendish laughter.

If Scatha has a Gift of Hanju left, and she decides to
use it, turn to section 115.

Section 111

If Scatha has a Gift of Hanju left, and she decides
not to use it, turn to section 116.

If Scatha does not have a Gift of Hanju left, turn to
section 116,

* FLL +

She runs in the dark, avoiding rocks and soft spots
in the sand with intuition she didn’t know she
possessed. She has, miraculously, outrun them, and
she hides-among the rocks, fighting to quiet her
breathing in the clear, crisp air.

She lies there until morning, when she finally
dozes off. She wakes with a start as she feels a hand
on her shoulder. She rolls to her back, protecting
her body with the shield which is still on her arm as
she reaches for her sword.

Over her stands an old woman. Scatha stares into
the woman’s eyes. They are as deep as wells. She
has seen eyes like this before. The Master of the
Dark Brethren had eyes such as these, eyes that
speak of powers unknown. Her heart sinks. But the
seeress who I saved had eyes like this. So did some
of the holy priests and priestesses, she argues with
herself.

“J am Arlis, seer and healer of these ignorant
people,” the old woman says with a haughty toss of
her head. “Come.”

She leads Scatha to a cave in the rocks. A slave

Section 111

girl brings them.food, and water sweetened with
fruit.

Scatha sits warily, planning her escape. But this
woman seems pleasant enough, although she never
stops staring at Scatha with her all-knowing eyes.

“What brings you here, child? You were not with
the caravan, were you?”

‘“‘No, Mother,” Scatha answers, using the polite
title of address for the woman.

The woman narrows her eyes and suddenly stabs
a finger out, pointing at the blue pouch at Scatha’s
belt. “What is in there? I feel it. I feel magic.”

Scatha slaps her hand protectively over the
pouch and tenses to spring to her feet. But she feels
herself growing dizzy. The food? The drink? The
eyes? she thinks thickly.

When she awakes the woman is holding the
still-glowing Memory Stone in her hand. She hands
it reverently back to Scatha. “So you are chosen to
save the world, are you? Well, you will not do it
alone.” She slaps her hands to her knees as she rises
to her feet. “We have much to do and little time,”
she adds with determination. “There are some
young warriors who are loyal to me, for reasons
which concern our gods but not you.” She starts to
send her student to summon the men, but Scatha
stops her.

“There was a young man captured with the -

caravan. He is my comrade-in-arms. Is it possible
to free him?”

“Easily. One of my warriors is the son of the
headman. He has claim on as many slaves as he

Section 112

wishes. He will claim the one you describe and any
others who are able to fight.”

Seatha describes Harold, and the student girl
leaves to summon the forces.

Turn to section 113.

* FIZ «

She runs for all she is worth, but she is cut off, and
forced back to the slave pen. She draws her sword
and squares off against the encircling tribesmen.
But they have the clear advantage as they toy with
her, striking her with spears and swords, never to
kill, only to cut, until she is bleeding from a dozen
wounds. Then they rush her, and she is quickly
pinned to the ground.

*“Ho! This one is a woman!” an Asheeran calls
out to his kinsmen, disarming Scatha and quickly
tying her hands behind her.

““Leave her alone,” cries out a too-familiar voice.

“Harold,” Scatha screams.

One of the captors comes close to Scatha, who is
lying on the ground tethered like a piece of live-

. Stock. 5

“Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her,” Harold cries
out until a blow to the head silences him, and he
falls to the sand.

““You bastards!” Scatha screams.

The Asheeran towers over her, pinching her face

Section 113

in his massive hands. “If you are not quiet, you will
not enjoy your life,” he says, roughly jerking her by
her bonds. ‘She is mine for the time being.”

He turns her over to a boy who addresses him as
Master and orders that she be taken to his tent to be
washed and dressed by his women.

Roll 1 D6 to determine how many hit points of
damage Scatha received before capture.

Go to section. 106.

* FIZ *

Scatha and Arlis are honored to ride on the horned
war-horses behind their riders. Harold and the
other non-Asheerans who have been freed are
forced to run across the hot sands.

They stop in the heat of the day, and erect a
_ sunshade. While the men doze, Scatha sits talking
with Arlis.

“What god do you serve, child?” _
_ “What do you mean?” —

_ Arlis looks puzzled, and a little shocked. ‘You
“mean: you have come all this way and you ae t =
~ even know who has chosen you?” + —

“Well, maybe Hanju.” Scatha tells of her é encoun-
ter with the god.

“A Lost God.” Arlis looks at Scatha in a new
light. She scratches her head and frowns. “No.

Section 113

From what you say you are lucky he didn’t kill you
somewhere along the way, by accident if nothing
else. He is not the kind of god I mean.”

“Is it important that 1 know?”

“Perhaps.” Arlis begins to chant. Scatha finds
herself so still she feels as though she is part of the
sand and the rocks. She couldn’t move if she
wanted to. She feels herself floating, but when she
looks down, she sees herself sitting quietly under
the sunshade. Her spirit spirals upward. Cold wind
streams past her, and she hears the flapping of great
wings. Are they her wings? She can almost feel her
arms outstretched, beating up and down, and the
pleasant pull as her feathers press against the wind.

Suddenly she is standing before a woman, a
woman whose long black robe does not hide the
muscled body of a warrior. The robe dissolves and
the woman is dressed in black leather armor, with
shining golden rings sewn on it. Long black hair
cascades out from under a beaked helmet.

“Do you not know me, my child?”” Her voice is
authority itself. ““Why have you not called on me?”

Scatha stands in silent terror. Finally she man-
ages to croak out an answer. “‘Please, Lady. I’m sort
of new at this. What did I do wrong?”

“Wrong!” The goddess’s voice fills the void.
“You have insulted me. You have called on
Mohandru, and that old villain Hanju, Brel, and a
dozen more. Who called you to this quest? Who has
stood by your. side this entire time? Did you once
call my name? Did you once pray to me!”

Scatha’s fear has melted into anger. “Pray to

Section 113

who? And just where were you the dozen times I
faced death and despair? Were you in the moun-
tains? Where were you when the Dark Brethren
captured me? Damn you, who are you?” By now
she is shrieking with rage.

Still shaking with fury she stares defiantly at the
goddess. The goddess is smiling. “I chose well, my
little battle raven. Iam Morigu, Lady of Battle. You
are mine, and,” she adds more gently, “‘I am yours.
Summon me in your greatest need. You serve me
and you serve my brother.”

“The Crow Lady!” Scatha exclaims.

The goddess’s laugh resounds and reverberates in
the void. Before Scatha can ask another question,
she finds herself in her own body, under the sun-
shade, in the Asheeran Waste. Arlis is looking most
pleased.

“Now that that is settled, it is time to wake these
lazy men and move on.”

They travel until well after moonrise and then
camp the rest of the night.

Subtract one day. If you have reached ten, do not
fear, for the Luck of the Gods is with you. You are
approaching your goal, and you have a few hours
before the conjunction.

Turn to section 110.

Section 114

* 414 «

Scatha holds her breath, listening to the little
sounds of the tent creaking in the wind, the lord of
the tribe breathing, her heart beating. But even as
he begins to make the most important decision in
the history of man the wind stills to a brooding and
eerie silence. The air turns blood red as the Dark
One slides its shadow across the Bright One. The
Bright One, turning a shade of purple like a day-old
bruise, caresses the sun which bursts into blinding
brightness at the celestial kiss of death. The sun
fades to gray as it yields in subjugation.

“It is true. You are a holy one. Ah, shame of my
fathers, is it too late?” the desert chief cries and
moans as the madness of the light storm strikes.

Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same or less than Scatha’s
Wisdom/Luck value, turn to section 6.

If the total is greater than her Wisdom/Luck value,
turn to section 5.

Section 116

* JIS «
Gifts from the gods are precarious things.
Roll 3 D6.

If the total is the same as or less than Scatha’s
Wisdom/Luck value, turn to section 117.

If the total is greater than her Wisdom/Luck value,
turn to section 118.

* 116 «

Whatever magic she may have to use to stop this
horror, Scatha knows one thing for sure. She knows

= her skills as a swordswoman. She leaps at Drukor,

the spell blade shining in her hand. Before he can

react, she slices his gut open, and follows that blow __

with a chop to the neck. Drukor falls to the floor in

thirds, dead.

- Scatha’s soldiers cheer, but even though they are

cutting down the demon gods as fast as they can, ‘

still more form from the red-black ooze. It is clear
that the battle is in no way won.

Turn to section 119.

Section 117

« 4W7 *

She reaches for her pouch. She feels for the Gift of
Hanju. Whatever the Crow Goddess has told her,
Scatha has some magic up her sleeve and she has ~
every intention to use it. She pulls out the familiar
pearl.

‘““Hanju, if you ever wanted to help me, now is
the time,” she cries out, and throws the pearl at
Drukor.

The pearl flies through the air, striking the wiz-
ard in the chest. As it hits it explodes, tearing
Drukor’s chest open, blowing a dozen or more of
the demon gods into bloody rags.

“Thank you, Hanju,” Scatha shouts to the cheers
of her brave soldiers, who are cutting down the
creatures as fast as they can.

But the creatures keep forming, and it is soon
apparent this is nothing but.a brief respite in a long
battle.

Turn to section 119.

Section 119

* 118 «

She reaches for her pouch. She feels for the Gift of
Hanju. Whatever the Crow Goddess has told her,
she has some magic up her sleeve and she intends
to use it. She pulls out the familiar pearl.

“Hanju, if you ever wanted to help me, now is
the time,” she cries out, and throws the pearl at
Drukor.

The pearl flies through the air and sparks once
with a tiny puff, falling dull and lifeless to the
ground.

Drukor is laughing hysterically as he points to
the useless thing at his feet.

“You would try to stop me with that!” he shrieks.

Turn to section 116.

* 119 *

A dragonlike thing more huge than any other rises
from the glowing pit. It fixes its eyes on Scatha and
hisses fire at her.

She puts up her shield, but even one blast of the
creature’s breath scorches it. Scatha swings at its
mighty neck, but her blade bounces harmlessly off

Section 120

the tough scales. Harold and two other soldiers are
at her side.

THE DRAGON GOD

To hit Scatha: 10 To be hit: 12. Hit points: 15
(Actually the thing has 45 hit points, but Scatha’s
companions are doing a fair piece of damage to it.
. as well.)

Damage with fire: 2 D6

Damage with claws: 3 D6

Type of attack alternates each turn.

Don’t forget that Scatha may still have some of her
healing potion left. She may use it during combat if
she needs to.

If Scatha is kilied by this powerful monster, turn to
section 25.

If against all odds Scatha and her brave warriors kill
the dragon god, turn to section 120.

* 120 «

“The eye, the eye. Strike for the eye.” Arlis’s voice
- cuts through the deafening shrieks of battle.

Scatha’s arms are so weary she can hardly hold
up her sword. Her shield is gone. Holding the hilt
of her sword with both hands, with one last great
effort she leaps up and drives the blade into the
beast’s eye.

Section 120

It writhes back toward the oozing pit, dragging
Scatha with it. She struggles to free her blade. It
shrieks in fury, sending streams of fiery poison
spewing throughout the chamber as it twists and
tosses its serpentine neck in pain. She wrenches her
blade free and the creature falls back into the
burning chasm.

But even as it is consumed in the fire, another
more terrible creature begins to form from the
living, burning rock.

Scatha staggers back, surveying the hopeless and
endless battle. Her brave force is down to half
strength by now. Those who remain cannot fight
this out alone. But where is there a reserve to call?
Who will come to her aid?

She hears a little voice in her head demanding
attention through the noisy clamor of the battle.
Call on me in your greatest need.

““Morigu, Lady of Battle, help!”

With a clap of thunder, a huge black form
appears over the pit. As Scatha watches, the figure
shape-shifts before her eyes: now a fearsome bird,
tearing with bloodied knife-sharp talons; now a
great warrior woman, slashing demons with endless
strong and sure blows of her shining two-handed
sword.

The goddess turns a scathing look at Scatha.

“Damn you, Scatha. I can’t keep this up all day.
Use the Black Flame.”

*_ Black Flame! Oh, the Memory Stone, Scatha
realizes. She fumbles for the rock in her pouch,

Section 120

“What do I do with it?” she shouts, but the
goddess is too busy to answer.

“Oh, damn. Here goes.” Scatha sighs. She lifts
the rock above her head, trying to remember every-
thing she knows about the Black Flame. It makes
stuff, she remembers, food, clothes, anything you
think of.

She thinks as she prepares to fling the stone
toward the flaming pit, This is like the stories of
getting three wishes, only I’ve got just one.

She tosses it. As the rock disappears into the
hole, she shouts, ee the crack. Take back the
demons.” xe

.Evér as she says the words, she prays that she
hasn’t said anything wrong, anything that will harm
Morigu, or Mohandru, or any of the gods who are
loved and who help so many.

The demons are falling back into the pit. The few
which are still crawling and flapping around the
chamber are slaughtered by the remnant of her
small army. Even Arlis is batting at the things with
her staff, shouting curses at them.

The crack is pulling together, and the black ooze
_ is retreating. Finally the heat and red glow of the
crack is gone, and only a crusted scar shows where
=> the doomsday horror was. The earth has healed

itself,

Scatha stands numb, the sword trailing from her
hand.

“Thank you, Morigu,” she gasps.

“That was exhilarating,” the goddess pronounces

Section 120

with an almost girlish smile. Then she points at the
dead warriors. ““They are mine.”

Arlis, her arm around the still-warm body of one
of her men, turns on the goddess. “‘No, these are
not yours.”

The goddess glowers at her, and then says, “‘You
are right. They serve another. You may have them
back.”

One by one, at the touch of the Battle Goddess,
the cut_limbs crawl on their own and reattach
themselves. tothe scattered bodies, the gaping
wounds close, and the dead._begin to groan, grate-
fully complaining of their human pain._

“But this one is mine.” The goddess pOifitssto_

Harold who lies lifeless, his chest laid open by a

giant claw. “But I can wait,” the goddess adds,
touching him with her life-giving mercy.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you.” Scatha is by his
side, looking up at Morigu with tears in her eyes.

“Come, Scatha. Take the horn, and him,” she
points at Harold, ““and come with me.’

They leave the temple. The conjunction and the
light storm have long since passed. The sun has
dropped to the horizon.

Morigu caws in the tongue of the ravens. Scatha
hears the sound of great thundering hooves. A huge
black horse rides over the desert, a great horned
war-horse with only one horn.

He halts before Scatha, the foam from his ride
still on his muzzle. He bends his head before her.

“You are right, Great Fricnd. This is no thing for

Section 120

us to keep,” says Scatha as she presses the missing
_ horn in place.

Morigu gently touches it. ““Be healed, my dear
brother.”’ Before them stands a magnificent blond-
bearded man, armored for war, his helmet bearing
two horns. “Sister, it has been too long.”

The gods shift again to their animal forms.
Scatha mounts to the back of the Great Crow.
Harold is privileged to ride the War-Horse, who has
taken a liking to the brave lad.

They ride beyond the world, flying in the airless
iciness of the stars for a timeless eternity. They
spiral downward toward a mountain keep.

“Chatelgard!”

The two heroes are left outside the gate. With a
salute as to peers, the two gods fly heavenward.

That night, seated at the high table in the great
hall, Ejord and his guests, including the priest of
Mohandru, listen with wonder as the young heroes
tell their tale.

-“T regret the loss of the horn, but the gods, as
always, are right. Men are not able keepers of such
a powerful object,” the priest sadly admits.
_ Finally alone, Harold puts his arm around
_ Scatha as they brave the chill winter air. a
i “What will you do now?” =
~ “You know I must leave. I have much to ome of
this goddess of mine.”

“I! feared so. I will miss you.”

“Oh, Harold, you are not rid of me yet. You
heard the goddess. She and her brother have

Section 120

claimed you, too. We shall have more adventures
together. I’d lay a bet on that.”
“I’ve been asked to stay here and train in arms.
Pll wait for you.”’ He looks up at the constellations,
the Crow and the War-Horse twinkling especially
bright this night. “-Do you think we will have to
save the world again?”
“fT wouldn’t be surprised,” Scatha says, laughing,
and to Harold’s amazement, grabs him in a great
big hug, and gives him a kiss, an unsoldierly kiss.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR —

Dana Kramer was born in New York City, May 10,
1940, the offspring of an actress—turned literary
agent and editor—and an actor turned professor.

She has spent most of the intervening years.decid-___
ing what to be when she grew up, an occupation ——

which has led her to graduate study and publica-
tion in oceanography, genetics, human ecology,
education, and drama, and employment in nuclear
chemistry, data retrieval, clone office work, acting,
photography (free-lancing in Europe), directing
(the Marin Renaissance Pleasure Faire, among oth-
ers), and, of course, writing, and pursuing study in
music, a variety of holistic health techniques, half a
dozen martial arts, painting, and achieving knight-
hood and a viscountcy in the Society for Creative
Anachronisms. She has three teenaged children,
who are secretly pleased with their eccentric moth-.
er, and currently is living with a long-suffering
husband, who valiantly survives much silliness, a
very bright wolf-hybrid, and a not-too-bright, but
sweet, German shepherd.

Fs, ee

cd

SNTER THE ADVENTURE

Shaking with fury, Scatha stares defiantly at the MK
goddess. But the goddess is smiling.“Iam Morigu, __
Lady of Battle, Lady of Crows. I chose well, my little
raven. You are mine, and Iam yours. Youserveme.””
The goddess’s laugh echoes in the warrior-woman’s
mind, and Scatha returns to her — gripping her
charging war horse for dear life..

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